#is this dialogue from my fic? perhaps....perhaps not

[infernal-lamb]

"No, Lamb, I do not fear Him. I do not fear you sending me to Him. Narinder and I will always meet, it is but the natural order of things, for War will always bring Death its harvest."

had another go at Shamura again....and just a little chat between them and the Lamb :) Decided to give Shamura a sickle for fun....to match with Narinder's scythe....just some silly agrarian tools of death!

[lucabyte]

I don't know how everyone isn't also always constantly thinking about how burial rites seem to be potentially one of the few things Siffrin instinctively remembers about their culture. But rest assured. I am in fact always thinking about it.

Textless version where they're just hanging out. It's fine!

[cheriekos]

these are super, super informal and unorganized thoughts but god these panels are haunting me so:

it’s interesting to finally be reading some of the issues that i assume influence general fanon perception of damian because there’s so much emphasis on the actions against tim (and like yeah fair, fucked up let’s not move past that) but also there’s little moments sprinkled throughout that made me go “…this is a child. This is a whole child.”

like idk man! These two pieces of dialogue are very striking to me! “See? I can be useful!” And “Look at me, Mother!”. Maybe it’s just because I work with kids but i read this and very clearly hear a child’s voice! And sometimes i think because a lot of people get caught up in the “formal” way that damian speaks that people forget he’s a kid. A very competent, highly trained kid. But he’s a kid.

Again, i don’t think Damian’s actions can be brushed off just because he’s a kid, and (within the content of the Morrison run), has had some fucked up shit going on. But like - for fanon, I’m just begging folks to strike the balance between talking about Damian being held accountable for his actions and also understanding that in this point in time he’s like maybe nine or ten-years-old. Idk! I’m tired of reading analysis and fan fiction that absolutely crucifies Damian and doesn’t try to find the nuance at all.

[sanchoyo]

you know what. I planned out my entire nanowrimo novel in a month then wrote double the length last november bc i had an outline to work off of. so like. theres absolutely no reason i couldnt just blitz a script for the comic in like, a month? I KNOW i can write fast jkdhjkad i could def do that...less excuses not to finish it if its already p much entirely planned in detail, right? 🤔

[sapphoshands]

A lot of fiction these days reads as if—as I saw Peter Raleigh put it the other day, and as I’ve discussed it before—the author is trying to describe a video playing in their mind. Often there is little or no interiority. Scenes play out in “real time” without summary. First-person POV stories describe things the character can’t see, but a distant camera could. There’s an overemphasis on characters’ outfits and facial expressions, including my personal pet peeve: the “reaction shot round-up” in which we get a description of every character’s reaction to something as if a camera was cutting between sitcom actors.

When I talk with other creative writing professors, we all seem to agree that interiority is disappearing. Even in first-person POV stories, younger writers often skip describing their character’s hopes, dreams, fears, thoughts, memories, or reactions. This trend is hardly limited to young writers though. I was speaking to an editor yesterday who agreed interiority has largely vanished from commercial fiction, and I think you increasingly notice its absence even in works shelved as “literary fiction.” When interiority does appear on the page, it is often brief and redundant with the dialogue and action. All of this is a great shame. Interiority is perhaps the prime example of an advantage prose as a medium holds over other artforms.

fascinated by this article, "Turning Off the TV in Your Mind," about the influences of visual narratives on writing prose narratives. i def notice the two things i excerpted above in fanfic, which i guess makes even more sense as most of the fic i read is for tv and film. i will also be thinking about its discussion of time in prose - i think that's something i often struggle with and i will try to be more conscious of the differences between screen and page next time i'm writing.

[theetherealbloom]

Don't Stop Talking To Me, And Maybe Stay Here Forever

Summary: You join Pedro Pascal in Morocco while he’s filming Gladiator 2. Between the beauty of the Moroccan landscape, the two of you share intimate moments, from quiet rooftop dinners to playful photo-taking and teasing with the cast.

Or… “I'll hold you, I'll know you. I'll never leave out the back door. And I'd love to complete you, hope you get all you could ask for.”

I just read your latest pedro fic it was the BEST DAMN THING i’ve ever read, my heart is going to burst out of my chest from all the butterflies 🦋🫠❤️ will you write more for pedro? perhaps his gf could visit him in marocco or something while he’s filming gladiator and to meet everyone from set and maybe have some alone quality time? :3 just a suggestion 😌 anyways have a lovely dayyy ^^ — anon

Paring: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader

Warnings: Established Relationship, Age-Gap(ish), TOOTH-ROTTING FLUFF, Slight Angst, Swearing, Anxiety, Cheesy Dialogue, Cuddling, Romance, Kissing, Real People Fiction, Cameras, Social Media, Embarrassment, Teasing, Shower, Slight Nudity, Make Out Session, Celebrities

Word Count: 5.7k

A/N: Okay, so, we’ve all seen the photo dumps!??!! Yes! GREAT! I haven’t watched Gladiator 2 cause it isn’t out yet in my country, so there’ll be no spoilers here mhmhmhmhm. I’m just gonna make stuff up based on the pictures Pedro posted on his Instagram lol. And again, this is all made-up, fictional, self-indulgent vibes so pls no one come after me ahhhhhh T^T

Also lowkey, I can see multiple parts to this so… stay tuned.

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Songs: Packing It Up by Gracie Abrams, this is how you fall in love by Jeremy Zucker and Chelsea Cutler

gif by @a7estrellas

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OUARZAZATE, MOROCCO — DAY

The warm Moroccan breeze kissed your skin as you stepped onto the bustling set of Gladiator 2. Pedro’s laughter echoed from somewhere nearby, his distinct voice easy to pick out over the hum of activity. Your heart swelled just hearing it. He was always magnetic, but here—working, immersed in a world of creativity and camaraderie—he was luminous.  

You adjusted your sunglasses, feeling both excited and slightly anxious. Meeting Pedro’s castmates felt like stepping into his other life, one where you weren’t the center of his world but a welcome visitor orbiting it. He’d reassured you endlessly. “They’ll love you. I mean, how could they not?” But still, nerves lingered.  

“Mi amor!” Pedro’s voice cut through your thoughts. He emerged from behind a cluster of tents, his smile so wide it could eclipse the Moroccan sun.  

“Hey, stranger.” You grinned, letting him sweep you into a tight hug.  

He pulled back just enough to press a kiss to your forehead, his arms still firmly around your waist. “You made it,” he whispered, his lips brushing your temple.  

“Of course, I made it,” you teased, tilting your head to look up at him. “I missed you too much to stay away.”  

The day unfolded in bursts of joy.  

Pedro introduced you to Coco Ullrich, Paul Mescal, and the rest of the cast. Everyone was warm and welcoming, their teasing camaraderie quickly drawing you in. Pedro stayed close, his hand finding yours at every opportunity, like he couldn’t stand to be too far away.  

Later, you found yourself perched on a stool in the makeup trailer, Pedro sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of you. “Hold still,” you said, trying to fix his disheveled hair.  

Coco stood nearby, laughing as Pedro playfully swatted at your hands. “I’m serious, guapo! You’ll go out there looking like you just rolled out of bed.”  

“Maybe I did roll out of bed,” he quipped, grinning.  

You raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t, but if you keep squirming, I’m going to make sure you look like it.”  

Coco shook her head, still laughing. “I don’t know how you put up with him.”  

“I have my ways,” you said, giving Pedro a mock glare.  

Pedro leaned closer, his eyes softening. “You’re lucky I love you,” he murmured, his lips brushing yours before you could stop him.  

“Pedro!” you protested, laughing as he pulled you into a full kiss, distracting you from your task.  

“Hopeless,” Coco muttered, snapping a quick photo of the moment.  

OUARZAZATE, MOROCCO — SUNSET

The Moroccan sunset painted the sky in hues of gold and rose as you, Pedro, and the cast settled onto the soft blankets laid out for an impromptu picnic. The sprawling desert seemed to stretch infinitely, its serene stillness a striking contrast to the chaotic energy of the set. A light breeze rustled through the palm trees in the distance, carrying the faint sound of laughter and the clinking of glasses.

Pedro sat behind you, his arms comfortably wrapped around your waist as you leaned back into his chest. His fingertips absentmindedly traced small, lazy circles on your bare skin where your shirt had ridden up slightly. It was a touch that grounded you, soothing and sweet, and yet it made your heart ache with affection.

“This is perfect,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, as if saying it louder might shatter the fragile beauty of the moment.

Pedro leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear. “No, you’re perfect,” he said softly, his voice laced with adoration.

You turned your head to look at him, catching the warmth in his gaze. He looked at you like you hung the very stars above, and your cheeks flushed. “Cheesy,” you teased, though you couldn’t keep the smile off your face.

“Honest,” he countered, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. His nose nudged yours affectionately, and for a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of you.

Paul Mescal, lounging nearby with a bottle of something cold in his hand, cleared his throat dramatically. “Alright, lovebirds, can you save the smoldering for the cameras? Some of us are trying to enjoy the sunset without third-wheeling your Notebook audition.”

Coco Ullrich snorted from her spot on the blanket, where she was busy assembling a makeshift charcuterie board. “Please, Paul, don’t act like you’re not taking notes for your own love scenes.”

Paul shot her a deadpan look. “What’s there to take notes on? I’m already perfect.”

“Debatable,” Coco quipped, popping a grape into her mouth and grinning.  

Pedro chuckled, his chest rumbling against your back. “Paul, don’t be jealous. You already found someone who tolerates you.”  

“Oh, I’m not jealous,” Paul said, gesturing between you and Pedro. “I’m inspired. The level of clinginess you two have achieved—it’s an art form.”  

“Clinginess?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow.  

“Yes, clinginess,” Paul said, smirking. “He hasn’t let go of you since you got here. It’s like watching a koala in human form.”

Coco leaned in conspiratorially. “Do you think he’d survive a day without her?”  

“Doubtful,” Paul replied, his tone grave.  

Pedro shook his head, his arms tightening around you playfully. “Let them joke,” he said into your ear, his voice a low murmur. “They’re just bitter they don’t have their partners to hold them while they complain about the heat.”  

You turned your head slightly to whisper back, “I think they’re projecting.”  

Pedro laughed, loud and unabashed, and the sound sent warmth flooding through you.  

“Alright, enough roasting Pedro,” Coco said, waving her hands. “Let’s focus on the important stuff—like this cheese board I’m absolutely nailing.”

“Coco, you put a block of cheese next to some crackers,” Paul pointed out.  

“And yet, it’s still better than anything you’ve contributed,” she shot back.

You couldn’t help but laugh as they continued to bicker, the dynamic between the cast a perfect blend of teasing and genuine affection. It felt good to be a part of this world for a little while, to see Pedro in his element and to share these small, beautiful moments with the people who meant so much to him.  

As the sun dipped lower, painting the sky with deeper hues of crimson and violet, Pedro shifted slightly behind you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You doing okay, sweetheart?” he asked softly, his voice meant just for you.

“I’m better than okay,” you said, turning your face to his. “This is one of those moments I’ll never forget.”

“Same,” he replied, his eyes searching yours. “But mostly because you’re here.”

Paul groaned from across the blanket. “Seriously, someone hand me a bucket. I can’t handle this level of sap.”

“You’re just missing Gracie,” Coco teased, tossing a cracker at Paul with a sly grin.  

Paul caught it mid-air with a dramatic flourish. “She’s the love of my life, thank you very much. I’m thriving, just long-distance thriving.” His wide smile softened slightly, a dreamy look crossing his face.  

Pedro chuckled, resting his chin on your shoulder as he held you closer. “See, even Paul can be romantic. It’s not just us being disgustingly in love.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Paul said, waving him off, though the grin never left his face. “But you two are setting the bar impossibly high. Stop making the rest of us look bad.”

Coco shook her head with mock exasperation. “Let’s face it, no one can compete with Pedro’s clingy koala act.”  

“Hey, it’s not clingy if it’s mutual,” you chimed in, leaning back into Pedro’s embrace.  

“Exactly!” Pedro said, kissing the side of your neck for emphasis. “This is just... efficient affection.”  

“Efficient affection?” Coco repeated, laughing so hard she nearly knocked over the cheese board. “That’s the worst excuse I’ve ever heard.”

Pedro shrugged, utterly unbothered, his lips brushing your temple as he murmured, “Don’t let them ruin this for us.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you whispered back, tilting your head to press a soft kiss to his jaw.  

The first stars began to dot the darkening sky, their glow faint but steady against the fading hues of gold and rose. The laughter of the group blended with the soothing whisper of the desert breeze, wrapping the evening in a cocoon of warmth and love.

You let out a contented sigh, your fingers intertwining with Pedro’s. These moments—filled with jokes, tenderness, and the quiet magic of a Moroccan sunset—were the kind you knew you’d carry with you forever.

THE NEXT DAY

OUARZAZATE, MOROCCO – AFTERNOON  

The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting warm golden light over the sprawling desert set. The faint hum of activity outside the large tent provided a calming backdrop as you and Pedro sat together, stealing a moment away from the chaos of production.  

Pedro’s lap had become your designated resting place, his arms wrapped snugly around your waist as you leaned into him. You had been quietly chatting about the day—how stunning the desert looked on camera, how Paul had stolen one of Coco’s snacks during a break—when the warmth of the afternoon began to lull you both into sleep.  

His hand moved lazily up and down your back, the motion soothing as his voice grew quieter, more relaxed. “You know,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple, “this might be my favorite part of the day.”  

“Falling asleep during work?” you teased, your voice soft and playful.  

“Falling asleep with you,” he corrected, his smile audible in his words.  

It wasn’t long before exhaustion claimed you both, your head tucked under his chin and his cheek resting against your hair. The quiet hum of the tent became a comforting cocoon, and time seemed to stretch and blur.  

The sound of muffled laughter stirred you from sleep, pulling you out of the warm haze. You blinked against the light, realizing you were still tucked into Pedro’s chest, his arms holding you close even as he began to wake.  

“Don’t move,” a familiar voice called. You turned your head to see Paul Mescal standing a few feet away, phone in hand, his grin wide and mischievous.  

Next to him, Coco Ullrich smirked as she aimed her phone at the two of you. “We’re documenting history here. You’ll thank us later.”  

Pedro stirred, squinting at them through his grogginess. “Seriously?” His voice was raspy, a mix of sleep and disbelief.  

Paul shrugged, grinning even wider as he showed Pedro the photo. “We couldn’t resist. Look at this. It’s like a promo poster for the most annoyingly sweet rom-com ever.”  

Pedro glanced at the photo, then at you, and laughed softly. “We should use that for the holiday cards this year.”  

You groaned, burying your face in his chest. “This is so embarrassing. They’re never going to let us live this down.”  

Coco laughed, flipping through her photos. “Oh, it’s way too late for that. I’m sending this to the group chat and the PR team. They’ll love it.”  

“Please don’t,” you pleaded, your voice muffled against Pedro’s shirt.  

Paul tilted his head dramatically. “Why not? It’s just a little fun. Besides, you two are giving us all cavities with how sweet you are. We’re suffering.”  

Pedro smirked, holding you a little tighter. “You’re suffering? Sounds like a personal problem.”  

“Alright, alright, enough!” A gravelly voice interrupted, and you looked up to see Ridley Scott standing at the edge of the tent. His hands were on his hips, but the amused twinkle in his eye gave him away.  

“Ridley,” you started, your cheeks flushing with heat. “I’m so sorry—”  

He held up a hand to stop you, his smirk growing. “Don’t apologize. If anything, I should thank you. Pedro’s been suspiciously well-behaved since you arrived. But,” he added with a pointed glance at Pedro, “if this keeps up, we’ll have to rename the film The Gladiator and the Muse. Production’s going to take twice as long.”  

The crew burst into laughter, and you buried your face back in Pedro’s chest, groaning. “This is officially the most embarrassing moment of my life.”  

Pedro chuckled, his hand brushing gently over your back. “Embarrassing? Nah. You’re the best thing about being here.”  

You peeked up at him, your cheeks still warm, and saw the sincerity in his eyes. “You mean that?”  

“Every word,” he said, his voice soft. “You make everything easier, better… you make it all worth it.”  

Your heart swelled, and a small smile broke through your embarrassment. “Okay,” you whispered. “I’ll try to believe you.”  

“Believe me,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead.  

Paul groaned, breaking the tender moment. “Someone get a camera crew. We’re turning this into a reality show. Lovebirds in the Desert.”  

Pedro laughed, finally standing and pulling you to your feet. “Careful, Paul. You might not survive the sequel.”  

Ridley clapped his hands, his voice carrying over the lingering laughter. “Alright, lovebirds, enough stalling. Let’s get back to work! Pedro, we’ve got a fight scene to shoot.”  

Pedro gave you one last reassuring smile before winking. “Don’t go far. I’ll need more luck soon.”  

You nodded, watching him head back to set, and felt a sense of warmth that no amount of teasing could dampen. As you stepped out of the tent, the desert sun shining overhead, you knew this moment—this strange, beautiful mix of chaos and love—was one you’d carry with you forever.

OUARZAZATE, MOROCCO – EVENING  

The rooftop restaurant was like something out of a dream. Lanterns hung delicately from wrought iron fixtures, casting warm, flickering light over the table as the sun dipped below the horizon. The air was cool but pleasant, carrying the faint scent of jasmine from a nearby garden. Below, the city of Marrakech stretched out in an intricate maze of rooftops and twinkling lights, the hum of life soft and distant.  

Pedro had arranged everything, from the secluded corner table to the small vase of your favorite flowers waiting when you arrived. He always had a way of making even the simplest moments feel like magic.  

“Look at this view,” you murmured, leaning against the wrought iron railing as the sky turned from gold to a deep, dusky pink.  

Pedro stood close behind you, his hand resting gently on the small of your back. “The view’s got nothing on you,” he said softly, the teasing lilt in his voice balanced by the sincerity in his eyes.  

You laughed, shaking your head as you turned to face him. “That’s a terrible line.”  

“Maybe,” he admitted, grinning as he pulled out his phone. “But it’s true. Hold still.”  

Before you could protest, he snapped a photo, catching you mid-laugh as you tried to dodge the camera. “Pedro!” you groaned, your cheeks warming.  

He chuckled, looking at the photo with a self-satisfied smile. “Perfect. Might frame this one.”  

“Stop it,” you said, trying to grab the phone from him, but he held it out of reach, his grin only widening.  

“Never,” he replied, his free hand reaching across the table to take yours. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, and his gaze softened. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”  

Your stomach fluttered at the way he said it—no teasing this time, just quiet, earnest affection.  

“Now you’re just being unfair,” you muttered, trying to hide your blush.  

Pedro leaned forward, his head tilting slightly as if to study you closer. “Not unfair. Just honest.”  

You rolled your eyes playfully, but your heart was pounding. In a bid to regain some ground, you grabbed your own phone and quickly snapped a picture of him just as he brought your hand to his lips. The resulting photo was unfairly good—his lashes long, the lantern light catching the gold in his eyes, the softness in his expression making your chest ache.  

“Got you,” you said triumphantly, holding up the phone.  

Pedro laughed, his thumb brushing over your knuckles again as he met your gaze. “Now we’re even?”  

“Now we’re even,” you confirmed, though your grin gave away how smug you felt.  

The waiter arrived with dessert just then—a delicate plate of Moroccan pastries accompanied by a small bowl of honey and almonds. You both leaned forward at the same time, reaching for the same pastry, and burst into laughter when your fingers brushed.  

“Go ahead,” Pedro said, gesturing gallantly.  

“Such a gentleman,” you teased, breaking off a piece of the pastry and dipping it into the honey. You held it up to his lips, your pulse skipping when he leaned in without hesitation.  

“Delicious,” he said, his voice low and warm. “But I think it tastes better coming from you.”  

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, trying to suppress a smile as you took a bite yourself. The flaky pastry melted on your tongue, its sweetness perfectly balanced by the honey.  

As you shared the dessert, your conversation drifted from playful teasing to the little things that filled your days. Pedro told you about a funny moment on set earlier when Paul had forgotten his lines and improvised something so absurd even Ridley couldn’t stop laughing.  

“And then,” Pedro continued, his grin infectious, “he tried to blame me, saying my face was too distracting.”  

“Well, he’s not wrong,” you teased, earning a dramatic roll of Pedro’s eyes.  

“Oh, so now you’re on his side?”  

“I’m on the side of the truth,” you said, popping an almond into your mouth.  

Pedro chuckled, shaking his head. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”  

Your smile softened, and you leaned your chin on your hand as you looked at him. “Probably still charming everyone who crosses your path.”  

“Not like this,” he said, his tone suddenly serious. He reached across the table again, his fingers lacing with yours. “You make everything better. You make me better.”  

Your throat tightened at the rawness in his voice, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him, his words settling deep in your chest.  

“You do the same for me,” you said quietly.  

The soft music playing in the background faded into the hum of the city as the two of you sat there, the world narrowing to just this moment. Pedro brought your hand to his lips again, pressing a kiss to your knuckles before resting your joined hands on the table.  

As the night stretched on, the two of you continued to talk about everything and nothing—your favorite childhood memories, the places you wanted to visit together, the little quirks you loved about each other.  

When it was time to leave, Pedro stood and extended a hand to help you up. “One last picture before we go?” he asked, his phone already in hand.  

You nodded, letting him pull you into his side. The lanterns glowed softly behind you as he kissed your cheek just as the camera clicked.  

Looking at the photo, you smiled. It was perfect—just like this night, just like him. 

L’HÔTEL MARRAKECH, MOROCCO – EVENING

The golden hues of the evening sun had long faded, leaving the hotel suite illuminated only by the soft glow of warm, ambient lighting. Laughter filled the room, bubbling up between stolen glances and playful teasing. Pedro leaned against the edge of the plush sofa, his hand resting casually on his hip as you doubled over with giggles at another one of his overly dramatic impressions. 

“I’m just saying,” he said with a grin, holding up his hands in mock innocence. “If anyone here is getting an Oscar for Most Entertaining Human, it’s me.”

You rolled your eyes, swatting at him lightly. “You? Entertaining? Please. You’re just lucky I think you’re cute.”

“Just cute?” he teased, his voice dropping into a low, mock-hurt murmur. He stepped closer, tilting his head. “That’s disappointing.”

And just like that, with no warning, he took your hand and spun you gently into his arms. There was no music, no sound but the faint rustle of the curtains and the muted hum of life outside your window. But to Pedro, there was no need for anything more. 

“Dance with me,” he whispered, his voice barely above a breath, pulling you flush against him.

“Pedro,” you started to protest, but the way he was looking at you—so earnest, so unguarded—stole the words from your lips. He rested his forehead against yours, his arms wrapping around you like he was afraid to let go. 

“You are the reason I can breathe,” he murmured. His voice cracked slightly, raw and unfiltered. “The reason I can survive.”

Your chest tightened, and your hands gripped the soft cotton of his shirt as you closed your eyes. Slowly, the two of you began to sway, side to side, as if the universe itself had orchestrated this silent melody just for you.

“Pedro,” you whispered, tears threatening to spill as the weight of his words sank deep into your soul. “You don’t have to—”

“Shh.” He cut you off gently, his lips brushing the crown of your head. “I want to. You’re my safe place.”

Together, you moved as one, the world outside forgotten. The phones were switched off, the curtains drawn, and for a moment, it felt like time had ceased to exist. All that mattered was this—his arms around you, your head resting on his chest, and the way his heartbeat felt steady and strong beneath your cheek.

“What’s easy is right,” you whispered suddenly, echoing words your mother had once said. The truth of it struck you in that moment, how being with Pedro never felt like a choice—it was instinct. Like breathing. Like coming home. 

Pedro smiled, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. “What’s easy is right,” he repeated softly. “Then I guess it’s easy to know... I’m going to love you forever.”

You laughed softly, though the lump in your throat made it difficult. “Forever’s a long time.”

He tilted your chin up, his warm, brown eyes crinkling at the corners with a quiet joy. “Not nearly long enough,” he said, his voice a low promise. “You’ll be my best friend until we’re old and gray. And even then, I’ll still love you.”

There was something in the way he said it—so simple, so sure—that your knees nearly gave out. But as always, Pedro was there, holding you steady, keeping you close. 

This is how you fall in love, you realized. Not in a blaze of fireworks, but in the quiet moments where you let go and they hold you up. 

“Do you know what you’ve done to me?” Pedro said after a long silence, his voice filled with wonder. “You make my stomach ache with hope. You make my hands stop shaking. I wake up smiling now, and it’s because of you.”

You bit your lip, your fingers tracing lazy patterns across his chest. “Pedro…”

“No, listen to me,” he insisted, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Love isn’t supposed to be heavy. It’s not supposed to hurt. It’s supposed to be this. Us. A safe place. A hand to hold through every storm.”

His words broke something open inside you, and you nodded, letting the tears spill over. “You’re my safe place too,” you whispered. “You make me believe I deserve this.”

Pedro pulled you closer, resting his chin on the top of your head as he swayed you gently. “You deserve everything,” he murmured. “Every laugh, every sunrise, every stupid little joke I’ll tell for the next fifty years.”

You both laughed softly, the sound mingling with the quiet hum of the room. The world outside could wait. For now, all that mattered was this moment—this love that was soft, steady, and unshakable.

Right from your hips to your cuticles, you were everything to him, and he was everything to you. Wherever you both went, it was heaven. And neither of you ever wanted to leave. 

Steam filled the bathroom, the warmth clinging to the mirrors and wrapping around the two of you like a soft cocoon. Pedro stood under the cascade of water, droplets running down his broad shoulders and soaking his messy curls. His eyes flicked toward you, a tender smile tugging at his lips as you stepped closer, your fingers gently reaching for the shampoo bottle.  

“Turn around,” you said softly, motioning for him to face away from you.  

“Yes, ma’am,” he teased, though there was a hint of shyness in his voice as he obeyed.  

You lathered the shampoo between your hands, your touch careful and affectionate as you worked it into his hair. His curls were soft and damp beneath your fingers, the grays glinting like silver in the dim light.  

“I love your hair,” you murmured, your voice reverent.  

Pedro let out a small, self-deprecating chuckle, tilting his head back slightly. “The gray makes me look old.”  

You paused, your hands stilling in his hair as you leaned around to catch his gaze. “Stop that. It doesn’t make you look old; it makes you look distinguished. And I happen to love every single one of these.” You tugged playfully at a curl for emphasis.  

He gave you a sheepish look, his lips twitching as he fought back a pout. “You’re just saying that because you’re stuck with me.”  

“Stuck with you?” you repeated, feigning outrage. “Oh, no, Pedro. I chose you—gray hair and all. And I’d choose you again. Every single day.”  

His pout softened into a smile, one so genuine it made your chest ache. “You’re too good to me,” he murmured, leaning in to press a kiss to your temple.  

“And you deserve it,” you countered firmly, finishing his hair with a rinse.  

When it was your turn, Pedro insisted on returning the favor, his hands gentle as he massaged the conditioner into your hair. His touch lingered, his fingers tracing the nape of your neck as he marveled at you.  

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice thick with sincerity.  

“Even covered in soap?” you teased, feeling heat creep up your cheeks.  

“Especially covered in soap,” he replied, leaning down to steal a kiss.  

The shower ended with a flurry of soft laughter and playful splashes, the two of you wrapped in towels as you padded into the bedroom. Pedro pulled on a pair of boxers while you slipped into one of his oversized shirts, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs.  

The two of you slipped into bed, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting a warm, golden light over the room. The air smelled faintly of the lavender lotion you’d rubbed on your hands, mingling with the subtle hint of Pedro’s cologne that still lingered on his skin. He had one arm draped lazily over your waist, his other hand holding a book he’d claimed to be interested in, though his wandering eyes betrayed him.

A book rested in your lap, too, but you’d long given up on reading. Instead, you could feel his gaze flickering to you, watching you more than the words on his page. It was endearing, the way he thought you wouldn’t notice, how he never grew tired of studying you like he’d never quite figure you out.  

“You’re not reading,” you finally accused, peeking at him over the edge of your book.  

Pedro grinned, unabashed. He set his book down on the nightstand and scooted closer, leaning his head on the pillow beside you. “Can you blame me?” he said, his voice soft and teasing. His hand reached up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his knuckles grazing your cheek. “I’ve got the most beautiful view right here.”  

You rolled your eyes, trying to fight the warmth rising in your cheeks, but the smile that stretched across your lips betrayed you. “You’re ridiculous,” you murmured, nudging him lightly with your elbow.  

“And yet, you love me,” he replied with mock arrogance, leaning back against the headboard with a self-satisfied smirk.  

“Unfortunately for me,” you quipped, though your tone was dripping with affection.  

Pedro’s laugh filled the room, low and warm, wrapping around you like a blanket. You settled back into your spot, his arm tightening slightly around your waist, anchoring you to him. For a while, there was only the sound of pages turning and the occasional creak of the bed as one of you shifted.  

Eventually, the books were forgotten, abandoned on the nightstand as the room grew darker, the soft click of the lamp switch plunging you into the comforting glow of moonlight spilling through the curtains.  

Lying side by side, your head resting on Pedro’s chest, you let your fingers trace lazy patterns along the bare skin of his arm. But your mind wouldn’t quiet, and as the minutes stretched on, the thoughts bubbling inside you demanded to be voiced.  

“Okay, but really,” you began, your voice breaking the comfortable silence. “Why is ‘llama’ spelled with two L’s? Wouldn’t one be enough? It’s not like we say ‘Llama-la.’”  

Pedro let out a soft laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest beneath your cheek. He tilted his head down to look at you, his lips quirking into a smile. “Mi amor, I adore you, but it’s almost midnight. Go to sleep.”  

“I can’t until I solve this mystery,” you said with mock determination, lifting your head to look at him.  

He sighed dramatically, feigning exasperation. “Fine. Maybe the second ‘L’ is there to confuse aliens.”  

You gasped, sitting up slightly. “That makes so much sense! Like, imagine aliens judging us for eating cereal with milk.”  

Pedro chuckled again, his arm tightening around you to keep you close. “Cereal with milk is sacred,” he said, his voice heavy with playful conviction. “If aliens have an issue with that, I’ll fight them myself.”  

You grinned, turning to prop yourself up on your elbow so you could face him fully. “Okay, serious question. If you could ask someone anything and be guaranteed the truth, who would it be?”  

Pedro cracked one eye open, his other hand lazily resting on your hip. “I’d ask you why you’re so determined to keep me awake,” he deadpanned, his lips twitching with a suppressed smile.  

You laughed, nudging him with your elbow. “I’m serious!”  

“Alright, alright,” he relented, the mirth in his eyes softening as he considered your question. “I’d ask my third-grade teacher if she really lost my homework or if she just didn’t like me.”  

You burst out laughing, the sound muffled by the way you buried your face into his chest. “That’s what you’d waste your question on?”  

“Don’t judge me,” he said with mock indignation, his fingers trailing absent patterns on your back. “It’s haunted me for years.”  

Your laughter subsided into a warm giggle as you tilted your head up to look at him. “Fine. My turn. I’d ask my mom if she’s proud of me. Like… really proud. Not just the ‘I’m your mom, so I have to say it’ kind of proud.”  

Pedro’s hand stilled on your back, his gaze softening as he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead. “She’s proud of you, baby,” he murmured against your skin. “And so am I. Always.”  

The weight of his words wrapped around your heart, a comforting balm that eased the ache of self-doubt. You nuzzled closer, your fingers curling around his as you let the quiet stretch between you for a moment.  

Moments later, you broke the silence again, your voice a whisper in the dark. “When I was little, I thought my toys came alive when I wasn’t looking. Like Toy Story. Honestly, I still kinda think they do.”  

Pedro let out a deep laugh, his chest shaking beneath you as he pulled you even closer. “I wouldn’t put it past them,” he said, his voice warm with amusement. “Your stuffed bunny? Definitely a troublemaker.”  

You giggled, your heart feeling impossibly light as his hand returned to its slow, soothing patterns on your back.  

The conversation drifted into comfortable nonsense, the kind of midnight musings that didn’t need to make sense but brought a certain kind of intimacy only shared in the quiet hours of the night.  

Finally, as your eyelids grew heavy and your words faded into murmurs, Pedro pressed a lingering kiss to your temple. “Goodnight, mi amor,” he whispered, his voice soft and steady.  

In his arms, with the world outside forgotten, you felt safe. Loved. His heartbeat was the only rhythm you needed as you drifted into sleep, a love like no other holding you steady through the night.

[esote-rika]

lose some, win some | Spencer Reid Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Category: Hurt/Comfort, Smut 18+, MDNI Summary: COLLEGE AU! When your debate team loses the national championship, you and Spencer return to your shared room and find a productive way to take out your frustrations. Content: Waldorf!Reader is a sore loser, lots of dialogue in the beginning, Sassy!Spencer, some talk of misogyny, Spencer makes up for it by being a munch (so f receiving oral), virgin!Spencer but he’s also a little shit, they are both little shits but it’s cute I swear, handjob, raw p in v but reader mentions she is on the pill, creampies, multiple orgasms for both of them (they’re frustrated and horny give them a break) Word count: 4.8k (it's porn with a plot for once) A/N: Not really frenemies or rivals, they’re just really angry young adults. Idk what Spencer’s actual age was in college, but he studied several times so for this fic, he’s on his third degree and is 21. If the debate stuff is incorrect, I'm sorry. I did do some research but there's so many different rules and styles lmfao. My friend who competes says it’s fine and understandable so :) also massive thanks to @just-call-me-by-yn @mggslover and @notlongtolove for helping me brainstorm and @wheresmacoffee because she was there JK  ILY ANDY their banter during the filthy part is for you <3.

Spencer Reid doesn’t particularly care about the prestige that comes with winning. Most people crave it for the validation, or because it’s another impressive thing they can slap onto their resumes, but being a genius his entire life allows him not to worry about that. His academics speak for themselves. He doesn’t need to pad it with extracurriculars. Instead, he enjoys the skills that are honed from debate—learning to listen to arguments, finding the perfect way to rebut, memorization and reviewing with like minded individuals. The university team is a well oiled machine composed of four people— him on his third degree, two other male juniors, and you, the only woman.

Over the span of two semesters, he’s memorized the quirks of his teammates. It’s essential to building rapport, after all, and he’s eager to get something good out of this. Something less academic, and more social. Friends, perhaps. While he’s formed a bond with the other members, you have always been an enigma. Stoic and ambitious, you remind him of a statue. Cold and oh so beautiful. You’ve often kept to yourself. And after several rejected attempts at friendship, he’s learned to just observe from afar.

He knows from experience that observing allows you deep insight into people, and so he knows after two semesters that you’re perhaps the most competitive out of the entire team, the most hungry for a win. This drive, he suspects, comes from a deeply rooted desire to prove yourself, though he’s unsure why. What else do you have to prove? You have everything, as far as he’s concerned. Keenly intelligent, beautiful, with a circle of friends that adore you. You aren’t like him, who has to sink his claws deep into this debate team in order to get a dose of social interaction. No, you have a life, no matter how marblesque you may seem.

And yet, somehow it’s still not enough for you.

He thinks it’s utterly ridiculous, and absolutely fascinating.

The weekend of nationals is taxing. You’ve been fighting for the opener role since the semis, but it would require too much adjustment, which no one is willing to risk so close to nationals. Not only does he not want to give up his spot, he also knows how ruthless you can be as a rebuttal speaker. He's meek, and you have a tendency to be aggressive, it's why the original roles go so well. 

Your adviser agreed, and there’s been tension ever since. 

To make matters worse, hotel arrangements somehow have placed both of you in the same room. The force of your resentment is palpable even to a normally clueless guy like him. Distracting. Pages being turned in your exaggerated annoyance. He’d complain of dramatics, but he doesn’t want to start anything. 

The fact that you’re rooming together also doesn’t help him. Sure, there are different beds, small twin mattresses on either side of the room, but still. Proximity to a woman his age has him anxious for reasons entirely unrelated to nationals. 

So when you lose the championship, his concern for your reaction behind doors overwhelms the regret of losing. 

No one is happy with the results. It is obvious from the set of his jaw, the tenseness of your shoulders. Spencer tries to calm down, accept defeat with a modicum of grace, at least in front of other people. He can tell the rest of the team is trying too, but quite unconvincingly. Onstage, accepting the medals for second place—mockingly silver, and no trophies—the team’s smiles are forced, plastic. 

Back to the hotel rooms are a different story. When you slam the hotel door shut, it echoes down the hall and makes even your debate adviser flinch. It would have made Spencer flinch too, if he hadn't already expected it. He's grown accustomed to how bad of a loser you can be. Like a tornado, your anger spares no one from its destruction. It is in these moments that your stoic resolve crumbles, no longer unfeeling, but rather fully human. Hurtful. Ruthless Unfortunately for him, he's directly in your line of fire.

He catches bits and pieces of your muttered diatribes. He’s used to those too. Normally, he would have ignored them. Losing sucks the energy out of a person, regardless of how uncompetitive he is. Besides, your ranting is mostly harmless, until one sentence snags his attention.

“— knew I should have been the opening speaker —”

He is clawing at his tie, trying desperately to get it off, but the words make him stop immediately. He whirls around, brows furrowed, “What?”

You pause as well, “What?”

“What did you say about being the opening speaker?” He watches you roll your eyes. It does nothing to calm the bitterness in the back of his throat. The normal song and dance goes like this: he’d say a string of words in an attempt to soothe the fire burning in your nerves, and you'd say something so vitriolic he'd refuse to speak to you for the rest of your time together. 

But today, having just lost the biggest championship after working so hard, he's a short fuse and your words are incendiary.

“I said I should have done it, like I asked—”

“Ah, as usual, you're mad that you didn't get what you wanted.” 

An offended scoff. He's almost proud he managed to pull that out of you. “You take too long—”

“Nationals isn't the time to suddenly alter the roles,” he tells you, shaking his head. He manages to loosen the tie, finally, tossing it on his bed with so much aggression it misses the mattress and lands limply on the floor, “I've always been the opening speaker.”

“Yes, and one would think that after going through so many debate competitions,  you would learn to be more succinct,” you snap, shoes making harsh clacks against the tiled floor, “The goal isn't to let us know you're the smartest person in the room, Spencer, it's to set up the tone and groundwork of—”

“I don't need you to lecture me about being the opening,” he interrupts, “I know what my role requires of me.”

“Do you?” Eyes flashing, you walk to him until you're almost chest to chest, “Because we still lost.”

“And you blaming me?” he hisses, leaning down. He hates doing this, stooping to your level of pettiness. Normally, he would choose to be the bigger person, refusing your verbal sparring; he likes to focus his energy on the actual debate, the opposing team, not his own teammates. But your words cut deeper than normal; it isn't the fault the team lost, that's just a flat out lie, “We advised you multiple times to memorize the statistics—”

“Something you're better at!” You look physically pained to admit his superiority, but the words spill anyway, “You'd be so much better to do the rebuttals since you have your stupid photographic memory, and I can set the tone better, but nobody on this little boys club ever listens to me!”

He's surprised at the choked tone your voice has taken. In his mind, you're a complete equal—you made it to the team through hard work and impeccable skills, like the rest of them did, after all. It didn't matter that you are a woman to him, so of course his instinct is to deny. “That’s not true.” but even his voice sounds weak. 

How would he know if it’s not true? He’s never been in your shoes before, never had to reckon with what comes with being the only woman in a team of men.

“Isn’t it?” he flinches at the venom in your voice, “You all act like I'm an afterthought—I get the shittiest positions even when I know I can be more effective in a different one, no one ever asks me for strategy, hell, you never invite me to your stupid chess games.”

His mouth opens and closes foolishly, latching on to the one thing he has a full response to, “I thought you hate chess.”

A sharp laugh, petulant and bitter, “I do, but it would have been nice to be included.”

He doesn’t know what to say. You’ve turned around, yanking off your pristine maroon blazer so roughly he’s afraid it might rip. The silence that grows makes him itch, hands balling into fists as he tries to think of what to do. Social dynamics have always been a thing of mystery to him. 

He wonders if he is part of this problem. He’s no stranger to feeling different and on the outs, and it pains him to think that he inadvertently caused someone else to feel that same, unpleasant exclusion.

But, no. Quickly, he recalls every single time he’s tried to include you—a museum trip that you’d declined because you had a party you wanted to attend. His extra tickets to the Nutcracker.

“That’s not true,” his voice is firm now, following you until he’s standing right behind. Lavender hits his nose and his brain registers the scent of your shampoo. Definitely too close if he can smell that, but he refuses to back away, intent on getting his point across, “That’s not true, I’ve tried to— you were always too busy.”

“What, I’m a liar now?” you spin around, pretty features twisted to somehow express both anger and hurt. He almost falters. Almost. 

But he’s too worked up, even though he knows he should back off, to not trivialize your experiences in order to defend himself. He should know better than this, but the sting of your accusation spurs him on. So he pushes, eyes narrowing, “Last year, September 14, 21, and 29, I invited you to come with us for several casual chess tournaments, you declined all invitations because you claimed you hated chess. October 29th, I told you about the new exhibit they were displaying—”

“It was Halloween weekend, I already had plans—”

“December 19th, I offered you Nutcracker tickets and you said you’d already seen it—”

“I have,” your voice has grown quiet now, and if he stops speaking for a single moment to look, your features have relaxed into something gentler. But he’s on a roll, and you have always been right about things; his inability to be succinct is one of them.

“Even this year, I invited you to study multiple times, but you’ve always had prior plans,” the words are spoken with neutrality. He isn’t even angry anymore, just eager to list everything down and let you know how hard he’s tried with you. Even after the numerous rejections, he’s made an effort, but of course, you have other friends, other plans outside your nerdy debate team. He’s never held that against you, but if you wanted to point fingers, he has the means to defend himself. And sure, he wants to prove you wrong on some level too, but that’s the lesser point. “Maybe if you stopped acting like you’re better than me, and just accepted, you wouldn’t be feeling so excluded.”

“I don’t act like I’m better than you.”

“You just said you would have made a better opening speaker.”

You scoff, “Oh my god, you’re infuriating, I can’t believe I’m stuck with you!”

Spencer bristles at that, “I’m giving you the facts, it’s not my fault you can’t handle them.” he says, leaning closer, trying to make her see his point, “You’re always so closed off and the other guys have just given up trying. Maybe if you—”

“What? If I smiled more? Acted less like a bitch?” you sneer, eyes narrowed dangerously, “I thought a genius like you would know better than to use misogynistic language like that.”

“Wha— no! Don’t put words in my mouth.” Spencer replies, shaking his head. The conversation is devolving into something dangerous, the air crackling with something electric. He assumes it’s anger. They will never get anywhere, so he sighs, softening slightly, “I never said that. I’m just pointing out that you weren’t blameless in this, you know?”

You’re silent. He watches you, takes in how the resentment in your eyes have been dulled by something more contemplative.

He continues, “Listen, I’m sorry if we’ve made you feel like you were on the outs. I’m sure we have to do so much reflection as a team and as individuals about how we treat each other, but it’s unfair to say that we never include you when I have actively been making efforts to—”

Your lips are upon him. 

That’s inaccurate. 

You are upon him, arms flung around his neck, body pressed flush against his. He feels the entire world tilt, and he’s unsure if it’s because you’re pulling him down or because your lips are so pillowy he’s instantly eager for more. Wants it like a man starved. Needs it, needs more, but his body betrays him. Whether it’s his inexperience or surprise or a combination of both. He freezes, blinking rapidly at the sight of you. Eyes shut, and face so close to him; so, so close he can count each individual eyelash, see the tiny freckle on your eyelid that gets hidden if your eyes are open.

And then you're gone. The freckle disappears as you look at him with wide eyed mortification. 

“Shit, Spencer, I—”

It’s his lips that cut you off this time, seeking out the velvety warmth of your mouth. Your lips part under his, and he registers a sound, soft and whining. It takes him a moment to realize it came from him, from the back of his throat and muffled by your lips and tongue and oh you’re both falling.

Literally. He must have leaned too far into you; you’re suddenly collapsing, forcing him down because your arms have him in a vice grip and he’s too busy chasing after your lips. The next thing he knows is he’s on top of you and you’re sprawled on the bed beneath him. Time stands still; he’s painfully aware of how cliche that is, but every sense of eloquence seems to have been expelled from his brain as he takes you in; lips swollen and wet from his kisses, pupils blown wide. Every breath you take pushes your chest up against his, and he can feel your heart thrumming against his body. 

“Well, that was one way of shutting you up,” you chuckle with a cockiness that makes his heart speed up, though it isn’t borne out of embarrassment. Every single physiological effect of your body is evidence that you’re enjoying this, telling him you’re just as worked up as he is. The breathiness in your voice, the quickness of your heartbeat. 

The fact that you’re pulling him down again, legs hooking around his hips. He surrenders to it, lips meeting yours once again, deeper and more desperate this time.

He closes his eyes, relishing this, kissing you, touching you, an act he had believed is reserved for attractive jocks and charismatic art nerds. Not him, quiet and lanky, shifting to avoid his angular bones from digging into you, and to place himself more comfortably on the bed. Inexperienced, ungainly, and yet here he is, his tongue pushing into your mouth in his first forays into something that his peers have experienced years ago.

Spencer Reid isn’t used to being the one behind, doing the catching up. Child prodigy, genius, the words aren’t meaningless. He’s been ahead academically—which, up until this point, has been his whole life. But feeling warm lips beneath his own has him reconsidering some of his life choices. 

The kiss is messy. Sloppy from his clumsy attempts to keep up with your eagerness. You’re tugging at something, and he realizes it’s to untuck the rest of the crisp shirt you’ve donned for the debate tournament out from your skirt. His hands settle on your waist, finding smooth, heated skin from where your shirt has ridden up. Careful fingers help push it up, burying under the fabric until his palms are mapping out the slopes of your body. 

Soft. So damn soft. 

Not cold marble after all. He theorizes you must be soft everywhere, and he decides to test it out with his lips, laving kisses along your jaw, down the sweet, musky skin of your neck where your perfume still lingers. Instincts take over and he allows himself a taste, tongue darting out. You shudder, so he does it again, greedy for your pretty moans and gasps. 

He can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips, “Thought you were mad at me?” he mumbles, trailing his kisses down the column of your throat. 

You’re all mhms and ohhhs right now, so far from the usual image you present to the world, a preppy, manicured woman who wrestles for control over everything. You must hate this, he thinks, being beneath him physically, caged within his arms which are deceptively strong for how fragile he looks. 

“Shut up,” you grumble.

“Make me.” His grin is dopey when he lifts his head to meet her gaze.

Something brushes against his crotch, and now he’s the one gasping, jerking in surprise at the friction. You’ve slotted your thigh between his, and his traitorous body responds by grinding down on it shamelessly. The look on your face is smug, triumphant.

“Huh,” saccharine and mocking, you blink up at him innocently, “That was easier than I thought.”

His head drops to your neck again, but he isn’t kissing you anymore. Just open mouthed breathing as he rubs himself on your thigh, hands tightening on your sides, “Mhm.”

“Are you gonna come? Spencer, I haven’t even touched you yet.”

He sinks his teeth into your flesh to fight the needy whines because yes, he’s so embarrassingly close and you’re both still fully dressed. He hears a hiss, and he backs off immediately, murmuring apologies, “Didn’t mean to—”

“‘S okay,” you tilt your head back, give him more access to your neck, “Just don’t leave marks.”

Permission to bite. He gulps, heart beating wildly, before ducking back down. Chapped lips run over your neck, finding a soft spot to bite, forcing himself to soften the way his teeth sink into your skin. All the while rubbing himself on your thigh because it’s probably the closest thing to heaven a man such as him will ever experience. 

He hears your laughter, your mocking cooes of, “You’re so fucking needy” but he can’t bring himself to care.

You’re correct, he decides, as you usually are. He’s needy, desperately so, eagerly chasing the delicious pleasure of dry humping your thigh. 

“Hold on, Spencer.”

You push him back gently. A whine rips from his throat, “Mhm—why?”

He gets his answer soon enough. Your hands undo his belt and he swears this sets his whole body on fire. Nobody’s ever seen him like this. Never has another person touched him so intimately, seen him so out of control, so brainless. He’s babbling incoherently as your hand strokes up and down his length, his hips rutting into your hand. It’s out of sync. Two dancers on entirely different rhythms.

Your laughter rings in his ears, one hand tangled in his hair as the other does unspeakable, tantalizing things to his aching cock. 

“Mhm, can’t— I’m gonna—” and he’s spilling into your hand, hot, viscous liquid overflowing from your hand and staining your skirt, “Ah, shit.”

He collapses against you, head on the crook of your shoulder as he tries to catch his breath. “‘M sorry, I’ll– I’ll pay for your dry cleaning.”

Your chest shakes as you laugh, “Would you? I think you owe me more than that.” The heat in your voice makes his breath catch in his throat.

Soft kisses press upon your neck as he gathers his thoughts, willing his brain to work again. Anatomy, female anatomy. Female pleasure. What does he know about this? A lot, surprisingly, though mostly from books. Mostly in theory, but that’s a start. He can put them to practice right now. His hands drag down your sides until they catch the waistband of your skirt. “May I?”

“Okay.”

He pulls gently, exposing the rest of your thighs and legs. Honey brown eyes devour the expanse of your skin, hands clutching at the softness. He marvels at the way your flesh accepts his own, bright red splotches imprinted from his fingertips.   

He thinks of poetry, the uncountable amount of words and phrases written to immortalize women and love and sex, and he finds himself wishing he has the skill to compose something as beautiful, something worthy of you right now, radiant and half naked and somehow all his. 

But he is no poet, so he touches his lips upon your body instead. Pretty words will escape him, but his lips can speak even without them, he’ll make sure of it. He kisses down your abdomen, making sure to pay attention to every hidden freckle and birthmark he comes across. Your reactions make him feel drunk, to the point of affecting him physically. Messier kisses. Hands tugging and nearly ripping the lace of your panties because he’s unaware of his own strength. 

“So pretty,” he mumbles, “So pretty.” It’s all he can repeat, but then his tongue lands on your slick heat and suddenly words are forgotten in favor of vague groaning. Because how can he accurately describe the sensation of this? Tasting you. God how has he gone so long without this? Your nails scraping his scalp, his fingers sinking into your thighs as he keeps you still. He’s halfway off the bed, legs dangling off the edge, your thighs squeezing his face. 

There’s nowhere else he would rather be. 

He laps at your folds like a mad man, tongue pressed flat and dragging up slowly to get as much of you in his mouth as possible. His feet find the floor, allowing himself more stability to once again rub his growing erection against a solid object. The poor mattress is going to be ruined once they’re done.

“Faster,” you gasp, jerking your hips into his face, “Spencer— oh, yeah like that!”

Spencer Reid is a quick study, and when he hears the positive reactions, he doubles down until he feels you convulse against his tongue. You jerk so violently he has to hold you down. He pushes his tongue past your entrance experimentally, and feels you tug roughly on his hair in response, gasping his name and God’s name in slurred phrases as you ride out your high.

It’s the hottest damn thing he’s ever experienced.

 “Jesus Christ,” you gasp, and he has to repeat that ridiculous sentence again, because it’s true and he feels you deserve it.

“You’re so pretty.” He fears you might be some kind of magnet, because his lips keep getting drawn back to your skin. He lets his kisses travel up your hip bone, before grinning up at you, “Even when you’re being insufferable, you’re still so beautiful.”

“Gee thanks,” you huff, pulling at his arm, “How romantic, I’m swooning.”

“Might not be swooning, but you did just come on my face.” brilliant rows of teeth flash at you as he smiles smugly.

“Asshole.”

“Is that how you say thank you?” he drags his body up lazily, draping himself over you.

“I’m not— wait, are you hard again?”

“Uh…”

“Needy, needy boy.” you pull him down to you, and he almost protests, his chin and mouth still covered with your slick. But you don’t seem to care, so he follows your lead, God at this point he would follow you anywhere at all. You’re shifting beneath him, and the next thing he knows is your legs are wrapped around his waist again, your heat completely exposed and pressing against his cock.

“Mhm,” he pulls back, eyes wide, “I—”

“What?” you whisper, lifting your head to continue giving him kisses, teeth playfully nipping at his jaw, “It’s fine, I’m on birth control.”

“It’s not that,” he can’t deny you, his body relaxing back down over you. His lips catch yours for a moment, slow and achingly tender, “I’ve just never really done this before.”

He waits for the inevitable laughter. Here he is, at 21, and somehow still the same person he had been when he first entered college at 14. But you continue to look at him with heavy lids, breathless and flushed. 

“Okay,” your voice is kind, sweet, “Take it slow then.” your hand wraps around his length again, the movement slower this time, as you align him to your entrance. He hisses as the sensitive tip grazes against your folds, as he feels your entrance slowly give way to him and envelop his cock. 

“Oh,” he sighs. With your help, he sinks halfway into you, one hand gripping your hip, the other bracing himself on his elbow. Eyes squeezed shut, he stills and manages to ask, “Are you okay?”

You don’t speak, and so he forces his eyes to focus and look at you. The sight has him twitching inside you. Mouth agape and eyes hazy, you’re nodding up at him wordlessly as your hips rock up into his. “More.”

It’s exhilarating. He’s known you for the past year, worked alongside you but respected your need for distance. And now, here you are, not merely close, but one. Spencer sighs, and thrusts shallowly, eyes zeroed in on you and your reactions. He doesn’t want to hurt you, doesn’t want it to end too soon, so he moves slowly, dragging out his cock until only the tip rests inside you, then sliding into the hilt.

It elicits the most mellifluous sounds from you, making him smile in relief. He lets his forehead rest against yours, thrusts growing more confident, but still in that slow, almost dreamy pace. He memorizes every detail of this moment, from the way your eyes flutter closed, to the quiver of your legs as they wrap tighter around his thighs. 

“So good,” he hears himself say, “God, you feel so good.”

“Mhm,” you nod, nails digging into his back, even through his clothes. In the heat of the moment, you’re both still half dressed, only getting rid of your bottom clothes in order to get what you need from each other, “More, Spencer, I need more.”

He nods, letting his thrusts grow faster, rougher. It’s an awkward angle, he’s afraid his knees will start cramping, but the feeling of being surrounded by your warmth, drowning in your moans has him reckless. “There?” he grunts, angling just so, and he can’t help the smirk on his face when he feels your walls clenching around him.

“There, there, yes!”

He’s not sure how he manages to last as long as he does. Maybe it’s the sheer desire to feel you fall apart, for his cock to be drenched in your slick that keeps his release at bay. Maybe he has too much pent up sexual energy that’s just been dying to come out. Whatever it is, he’s thankful for it, because it means he’s spending more time inside you, hips moving with so much impact he’s pushing you forward with each thrust. 

“Yes, just like that.” you’re shuddering beneath him, and he moves his arm to the top of your head, creating a barrier between you and the headboard so you don’t hit it. He could stop, readjust your positions, but he doesn’t have it in him. 

No, he wants to stay inside you, forever if there’s an anatomically feasible way to do it. But unless he invents it, he’ll settle for right now, settle for the heat between your bodies, and how you’re practically melting into the mattress, arching so prettily against him.

“You close?” he murmurs, one hand finding your clit, drawing gentle circles with his fingertips.

“No fair,” you whine, bucking into him, “That’s cheat— Spencer!” 

You come undone in the most enthralling way, eyes squeezed shut, bottom lip bitten by your own lips. You squeeze and flutter around him, and he’s helpless to stop his own release, spilling deep inside you with a broken cry from his own mouth. Your name is whispered, over and over again, until he stills, his vision blurry as he collapses against you.

He curls around you, trying to get as close, “You—that was—wow.” 

You giggle, still breathless and glassy eyed, “Are you sure that was your first time?”

“Yes,” he gives you a series of kisses along your temple, “Yes, it was. You—wow.” he carefully pulls out of you, hissing quietly when the cool air conditioned air hits his sensitive flesh. “Was that enough of an apology for not including you to our chess nights?”

“You’re making jokes now?”

“No,” he smiles, leaning away to look at you, all starry eyed and boneless, “Not a joke. Because if it’s not enough, I can do it again.” a kiss to your cheek, “And again.” one on the tip of your nose, “And again.”

When you laugh in response, he cups your cheek, “I mean it.” he says with all the seriousness he can muster.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“Does this mean you’ll accept my invitations now?” he lights up, a large smile splitting his face.

“Only if it’s a date.”

"Then it's a date."

[homkamiro]

HEY DID YOU KNOW YOUR ART IS EXCELLENT AND YOUR LINEWORK IS STUNNING AND YOUR EXPRESSIONS ARE PEAK

HELLO??? AM I REAL IS THIS REAL??? THETRIGGEREDHAPPY IN MY ASK???????? I💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥

dude i am SUCH a fan of your works you have NO idea, like I think if I hadn't read running blind that day i wouldn't be so fixated on speeding bullet right now. I reread nearly ALL of your fanfictions and I recommend you to every one of my friends. And seeing you here praising my art is just😭💥i need a minute

In a gratitude making a small comic based on that one moment from Little Things🗣️🗣️your dialogue writing is one of the best I've seen in YEARS and ngl I do plan someday making an animatic based on one of your fics perhaps...someday....and only if you're okay with that.....

[delusional-day-dreamer]

U My Everything - p.b

‣ paige x grumpy reader: part two here!

‣ wc: 3178

‣‣ synopsis: paige's harmless joke is taken a little too personally by her sensitive and grumpy girlfriend; slight angst? but very fluffy by the end! (the song is most relevant for the end part of the fic as it's inspired by KK's 05/31/24 live, can u tell I live for uconn lives?)

‣‣�� a/n: I'M SORRY, i know y'all chose emily in the poll but I alr finished this one and I've promised myself I would try to release at least one fic a day; emily's will be out very very soon, writing smut for the first time is just very nerve wracking lmao. this is lightly based off the, good morning gorgeous, tiktok trend going around rn; Also, I'm so sorry for the amount of times I use y'all, like, literally, and really because I try to make my dialogue and what not as realistic as possible, but as a Southern Californian they're literally engraved into my vocabulary 😭😭.

Rolling over in bed half-conscious, your arms reach out, patting around the bed in an attempt to locate your girlfriend's warmth without having to open your eyes. However, to your sheer disappointment, your fingers are met with cold, rumpled sheets on Paige's side of the bed.

Now fully conscious with confusion as to how your girlfriend managed to slip from bed without you realizing, the pounding in your head became all the more severe as you sat up in bed, frustrated that the one person who could comfort you simply with their presence was nowhere to be found.

With your right hand massaging the temple, attempting to soothe the deep ache that had settled into the front portion of your head, your left hand blindly felt around your nightstand for your phone, knowing Paige wouldn't have left you alone in bed without so much as a simple text message. But to your surprise, her name was absent from your list of notifications.

Even more annoyed than before, you forced yourself out of her bed, stumbling your way to her adjacent bathroom, wincing at the sudden intrusion that was fluorescent lighting. By the time you began brushing your teeth, you heard the front door open, hearing Paige call your name as she entered the dorm.

"Bathroom," you yelled out to her, despite your head screaming at you to shut up and crawl back under the safety of Paige's comforter.

"Hey baby," Paige greeted as she entered the bathroom while you spit toothpaste into the sink, coming up behind you to hug your waist, resting her head on your shoulder. As you stood back up to meet her gaze in the mirror's reflection, you saw her tuck her bottom lip into her mouth, clearly trying to hide her shit-eating grin.

"Well don't you look... interesting this morning," she teased, the sarcasm apparent in her low voice. You knew her mocking was all in good fun, the two of you often poking fun at each other for little things. But perhaps it was the headache still waging war in your skull, or the final three midterms you had to take later today, or your remanent annoyance at having to wake up alone, despite her knowing your favorite part of the day was waking up, warm and all loved up in her arms, or perhaps it was the fact that looking in the mirror, you genuinely looked wrecked this morning.

Your curly hair was reduced to nothing but a puff of frizz overnight, sticking out in all directions, your eyebags particularly prominent this morning, combined with the pesky anxiety breakout that had settled into your forehead a few days prior, you just couldn't handle her jokes today.

"Yes, thank you for pointing that out Paige," you shot back, setting your toothbrush back in its cup holder, exiting her hold to wipe your hands on the small towel before pushing past her to get dressed in her room.

Paige followed close behind you, curious as to why you were giving her so much attitude so early in the day, especially over such a harmless statement.

"What's up with you, this is the first time I've even seen you this morning," She questioned from her seat on the unmade bed as you began changing your clothes with your back facing her, which was another thing that struck out to her as odd. After dating for over a year now, the two of you were incredibly comfortable with each other, and it was rare for you to completely turn your back on her, even when changing.

"Nothing, I'm just not in the mood today," you grumbled, tugging your, her, sweatshirt over your head. Heading over to her floor length mirror with your makeup bag and necessary hair products in hand, you settle down on the floor in front of it, convinced to improve your appearance a bit before you head off to your exams today. Still ignoring Paige's presence in the room, you began getting ready.

Hearing her scoff as you started applying your makeup, she got up and began making the bed, intent on ignoring your bratty mood until you fixed it. You knew you were being petty and acting bitchy to your girlfriend, who had technically done nothing wrong, you just couldn't force yourself to drop the attitude. By the time you finished your makeup and smoothed out your slickback, you managed to go the entire twenty minutes without so much as looking at your girlfriend through the mirror, who had now perched herself on her side of the bed, scrolling mindlessly on her phone.

Your headache hadn't subsided yet, but now that you were more awake, you had gotten used to the throbbing sensation. Making your way over to your side of her bed, you collected your phone, headphones, watch, school bag, and other items from your nightstand and around the area to get ready to leave.

"Your heading out already? You still have over an hour before your first class," Paige finally addressed you, putting her phone in her lap to look at you as you packed your things.

"Yeah I'm gonna head to the library early so I can review before my first midterm," You answered, speaking to her normally for the first time in the last hour she had returned.

"But what about breakfast, you're not gonna be able to concentrate and stuff when you're all hangry," she said, only slightly teasing you with her statement.

"I'll just grab something to eat from the coffee shop next to the library, I was gonna stop by and get matcha from there anyways," you responded, a small part inside of you glad that despite your attitude, Paige made sure that you were well taken care of.

"Dude I still don't understand how you drink that stuff, tastes like straight grass," she had dropped her concern and switched back to joking, her automatic setting. "But I guess it's fitting," she continued, "cause yk, cows just love their grass," she sighed, holding back her laughter at what she thought was a brilliant joke.

In her defense, if it was any other morning, you would've joined in on her teasing, either mooing at her in response or poking fun at her in return.

But today, it just ticked you off even further. I mean, you were clearly already in a bad mood, stressed the fuck out, hangry (but Paige didn't need to know she was right), and the sharp pressure in your head was only getting worse. Plus, Paige had already easily finished off her midterm exams two days prior, which meant she didn't truly understand why you were so worked up over your exams. And the worst part, your bloating and exhaustion really did make you feel a little bit like a cow.

“P I'm just not in the mood to deal with you right now," you sighed, exasperation laced in your tone. "I already feel bad enough this morning, I can't handle you piling more onto my plate, I'll see you later," you barely even said goodbye to her properly as you gathered your stuff, put on your shoes, and left her dorm.

The second you closed her door behind you, you could feel the pit forming in your stomach, full of regret and shame. You knew it was unfair to be so rude to Paige when she was just trying to lighten your mood, but your anxiety always caused you to last out at anyone who tried to help you. You made a mental note while walking to your favorite coffee shop to apologize and make it up to her when you saw her in the evening, after the stress from midterm week had diffused and your raging headache calmed down.

***SMALL TIME SKIP***

You were flipping through your study notes and flashcards while listening to one of Paige's playlist on the lowest volume possible when you saw your phone screen light up from next to you. Deciding it would be good to take a quick thirty second break, you reach for your phone and matcha latte at the same time, clicking on the text message you received from Paige.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

From P 💜:

I'm so sorry for making fun of you this morning baby, I know you're stressed about your tests today and I had no intentions of making you feel worse with my jokes, I just wanted to cheer you up a bit because I know how bad your anxiety can get. Good luck on your test today killer, i love you 🤍.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Shit, now you really felt bad for snapping at her earlier today. All remnants of your misplaced anger had long since disappeared, now replaced with embarrassment. She was right, your anxiety was hitting you hard today, but that was no excuse for bitching out your girlfriend just for trying to improve your mood. You quickly hearted her message and began typing out a short response, as you knew you needed to apologize in-person for your behaviour.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

To P 💜:

Thank you so much P, I'll see you later tonight baby. I love you too 🤍

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

***SMALL TIME SKIP***

You breathed a sigh of relief as you finally reached the floor of Paige's dorm room, exhausted from your long and mentally tiring day of midterms, but you were finally done, your headache was finally gone, and you now had the weekend to relax and spend time with your girlfriend.

As you reached for your keys in your pocket, you heard the loud commotion of voices that you recognized to be KK, Aubrey, Sarah, Allie, and Paige in the living room. It wasn't uncommon for the girls to be over, as the team always spent hung out together outside of practice, and since you started spending more time at Paige's dorm, you had quickly stocked her near bare kitchen full of snacks, baked goods, and home-cooked meals the girls loved to steal.

You entered the living room greeting everyone as you took off your shoes, making a beeline straight to where Paige was sitting on the couch. You stood in between the space of her legs, wrapping your free arm around her shoulders to lean down and plant a kiss on the top of her head.

"Hey P," you spoke softly, looking down at the small smile that had settled on her face.

"Hey yourself, how were you midterms? Today was your last day right?" She questioned as her fingertips began running up and down the back of your legging covered thigh.

"They were fine, I think I did good on majority of them. My math midterm was a little shaky, but not too bad yk?" You answered her quietly, afraid to pop the little bubble of peace you two had created around yourselves among the chaos of the living room's occupants.

"I," you began, as your hand had made its way to the front of her face as you pushed back a small piece of hair that had escaped out of her bun. "Will you come in the room with me real quick?" You asked her, practically whispering at this point.

"Yeah of course baby," she answered quickly, letting her hand travel up your body to rest at the small of your back as she stood up, leading you past everyone to her bedroom.

"We'll be right back," she announced to the group as the two of walked by. "Oooo, Paige is in trouble," KK sang out as the two of you reached her closed room door, Paige still standing behind you. She turned the knob quickly, gently pushing you into the room first as she turned around to stick her tongue out at KK before she closed the door.

By the time she turned around from the door to face you, she barely had a moment to adjust to your body barreling into her, as you had already dropped your bag off next to her desk. She quickly wrapped her arms around you, being able to sense that you just needed to be held for a minute before speaking.

She lightly rubbed your back and shoulders with her hands, knowing exactly what it was that immediately calmed you down. You stayed silent in her comforting embrace for a few more minutes, having craved her touch all day when you were around campus.

"I'm sorry," you finally spoke up, unburying your head from her chest to look her in the eyes. "I was really rude to you for no reason this morning. My headache when I woke up and all the stress I had was completely unrelated to you, but I still ended up taking it out on you," you sighed before continuing, "I really appreciate the fact that you were trying to cheer me up this morning, even though I was being a total bitch. And you are never a burden or someone who adds more onto my plate, I love you and I'm so sorry I said that to you, I would never want you to feel that way and-" as your eyes began to well up with tears, the last of your apology was cut off by Paige.

"Hey hey it's okay baby," she pulled you slightly away from her as the tears began flowing from your eyes. "I know you," she maintained eye contact as she reassured you, "And I know you would never act like that normally, you are not a bitch. You were just stressed out and not feeling well. I understand, and I promise I'm not mad at you at all," her right hand moved up from your back to your face, wiping the tears streaming down your face.

"Thank you P, I have no idea what I would do without you," you sniffled lightly, your hand coming up to wipe your face as well. "I love you so much, you have no idea," you professed.

"I love you too y/n/n," she whispered as her hands wrapping around your waist as she pulled you into her, leaning down slightly to kiss you. Your hands flew up the moment your lips connected, one cradling her jaw while the other rested on the base of her neck. The kiss was slow and languid, an apology met with forgiveness as your lips moved together.

The loud rumbling of your stomach, interrupted your sweet moment with Paige, forcing the two of you to separate as a giggle slipped out of her.

"Didn't realize a small kiss made you that hungry for me," she smiled, now at peace knowing that you were no longer upset. "Shut up," you smiled back, lightly hitting her chest as you broke away from her. "I am for real hungry though, but I need to shower first," you told her as you moved around the room, grabbing your towel and a fresh pair of pajamas to change into.

"I'm pretty sure Aubrey is ordering Domino's so I'll tell her to add in something for you, and it'll probably be here by the time you get out," she kissed your cheek as you went to exit the room, heading for a quick shower as she remained in her room.

***SMALL TIME SKIP***

As you entered the living room, curls freshly washed, a soft pair of Paige's sweatpants resting low on your hips, and a small off the shoulder sweatshirt over your sleep tank top, you witness KK showing her tik tok live her "hips dance", if it could even be referred to as that.

"Oh wow," Paige commented dryly at the sight while getting up from the couch so she could grab her laptop from the kitchen counter. You moved past her to Aubrey's desk, grabbing a piece of garlic knots from the Domino's box she left partially open (i don't think she actually bought any but I'm craving them so i added it in here). You rested your hip against the table, waving at the live while KK queued up Sexyy Red on her Siri.

Everyone knew you and Paige were a couple, when Paige accidentally hard-launched you by posting a cute couples pic on her main instagram story instead of her close friends. But since then, the two of you kept a private but not secret relationship, very occasionally posting together, but fans often saw candids of the two of you on dates or together in the team's lives or other events.

You licked the remaining cheese and butter off your fingers as you watched Paige, KK, and Aubrey dance in front of the camera to "U My Everything", smiling at their so-called dance moves, especially Paige's.

"Man we go together tell them hoes we go together," Paige sang, before doing her little "attitude now walk" move, making you double over with laughter at her with the other two girls.

You scratched the back of your neck as you continued to watch the girls mess around, too tired from your day to join them, but content just from watching them. As the second chorus approached, Paige walked up to your leaned figure on the desk, grabbing your bare waist and pulling you into her as she sang.

"Bae, I love you, you my everything, I'm your main bitch, fuck a wedding ring," you laughed at her awful singing, but you couldn't deny the blush that rose to your cheeks at the thought of her singing you the lyrics while very clearly in the live's frame. "We both in fast cars and we switchin' lanes, when I'm away from you, you always on my brain," she continued, adding in her sassy facial expressions with the corresponding lyrics.

You couldn't help but laugh at her actions, the pure giddiness coursing through your veins was a complete 180 from your mood this morning, and you couldn't help but think there was nowhere that would make you happier than in her arms.

Thank you for reading all the way through! The recent support has been crazy and I appreciate all of you! Should I make a part two to this with smut so r can properly apologize to p.... 😏😏😏

[earthtooz]

x : MY DILUC, MY EVERYTHING :*+ﾟ

in which: you tell diluc that klee finds him 'too boring' to be your boyfriend. he can't help but feel like she's right.

warnings: 1.3k words, insecure diluc who needs a little reassurance, mostly dialogue, klee being cute but also a menace, so much fluff with a dash of angst.

a/n: i have not posted anything in so long, but i wanted this to be my first fic of 2024 because i love diluc <3 i hope you all enjoy this little fic!

“What do you mean Mr Diluc is your boyfriend?” Klee asks, tilting her head to the side with an inquisitive look in her eyes as you bend down to her height.

“I mean that Mr Diluc is my boyfriend. My partner. We’ve been together for years now.” 

“You mean that Mr Diluc, right?” She raises a tiny hand in the direction where the red-haired in question stands. He’s immersed in conversation with Kaeya and Jean, but from one glance you can tell the estranged brothers are up to no good. Or rather, that Kaeya is having the time of his life provoking your partner.

“That’s the one. I think he’s the only one, Klee.”

Her pointer finger then comes up to her chin in contemplation, and her breath of contemplation materialises as a small cloud, condensating in the winter chill. “Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“Why is he your boyfriend?”

“Well, why wouldn’t he be?”

“No offence to Mr Diluc, but he’s so cold and boring!” She cries, clenching her fists to her chest, as if being ‘boring’ was a crime to humanity. “And he never smiles. He should smile more but I would find him scarier like that… so maybe he should stay the way he is: a total gloomy bum bum!”

You can’t help but laugh at her honest statement, muffling the noise with your hand. She blinks at you and wonders what she said that made you laugh, but you simply tell her that it’s nothing.

“Maybe, but I love that ‘gloomy bum bum’ just the way he is.”

“But… why? Y/n is so kind and knows how to smile! Mr Diluc is too sad and boring for you.”

Over the course of your relationship with the wine monopolist, you were met with resistance from various people who believed they wanted ‘the best’ for him. These were including, butand not limited to, businessmen, his admirers, and old aristocrats with wealth on the brink of collapsing. You never let their passive aggressiveness get to you, their comments burned to ashes by the way Diluc lights the way for you with his undying flames. 

Yet hearing a child, who has no real grip of the world beyond explosions and how not to blow up Monstadt, explain that Diluc shouldn’t be with you because he doesn’t know how to smile is… unbelievable. Her intentions are nothing but pure for her knowledge of the world has not yet been tainted by the nuance of human behaviour. As refreshing as it feels to have her support, any insults you hear about Diluc are unpleasant to hear. Though she may not hold any malice, perhaps her judge of character needs to be deepened.

“Sometimes, the coldest people are really the warmest,” you begin, gently wrapping her scarf around her neck. “Mr Diluc is one of those people.”

“Really?”

“Warmer than a fireplace, or a Pyro Crystalfly, or Jumpty Dumpty.”

Her eyes widen. “Really?”

“Yes, but please don’t go blowing one up just to see how warm it can be. Jean already told you about the animals hibernating during winter, you shouldn’t go disturbing them.”

She tucks her hands behind her back, eyes downcast and ears flopped.

“Do you remember when Albedo took you to Dragonspine and when you melted a chunk of ice, crystalflies flew out of it?”

“They were so pretty and became super warm! I wish I caught one of them, but they flew away too quickly.”

“Mr Diluc is just like that ice with the fireflies. You just need to warm up to him and when you do, he can be one of the best people you’ll ever meet.”

“Will he fly away too?”

“You could keep an eye on him and find out.”

She nods, determination alighting in her eyes with the new task you assign her. Although you’re pretty positive she won’t ever succeed with it, you’re just happy you’ve found a way to show Klee that your lover isn’t as terrible as she deems. A flash of familiar red hair appears in your periphery.

“Dear?” He calls, capturing your attention. “Shall we head into the tavern now? It’s too cold to stay out here.”

Sparing one last glance at Klee who regards your partner with fire in her eyes, you can’t help but smile at the pure innocence in her heart. With a ruffle of her hair as goodbye, you take Diluc’s hand and stand, waving goodbye to the rest of the group before heading in the direction of Angel’s Share. Shuddering, you sink deeper into the wool of your coat and the warmth of his Pyro Vision, a perfect combat to the winter frost that’s covered Monstadt.

“You know,” you begin when both of you have arrived at the empty tavern and the red-haired has a fire started in the corner. He urges you to continue with a soft ‘hum’. “The conversation I had with Klee just won’t leave my head.”

“Oh? What’d she say?”

Sitting down on a cold stool, you keep your gaze on him as he walks behind the counter. It seems like he’s preparing drinks and snacks for you: some cheese, crackers, and grapes.

“First of all, she only found out today that I was dating you.”

“Oh? Jean or Albedo haven’t told her before?”

“I guess neither of us appear that much in conversation together. But she refused to believe it at first, being like ‘you mean that Mr Diluc?’, ‘why is he your boyfriend?’,” you laugh. “She thought that you were too gloomy to be with me and that I should be with someone who knows how to smile.”

His cheese knife halts, the sound of metal meeting wood slicing through the atmosphere. However, you’re too engrossed in retelling the story to notice the way he freezes.

“How silly. Kids really have the wildest presumptions and thoughts to match.”

Diluc continues preparing the food, stiff hands moving along the counter. You don’t say more than that, saving further conversation for when he’s done. As he sets the arrangement of crackers, cheese, and grapes down, it’s accompanied by a heavy sigh.

“What if… she’s right?” Asks the winery owner, voice no louder than a whisper.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I did, but I don’t understand why you think that way too.”

“Well, smiling isn’t my strong suit anymore and I’ve been told by the knights that the children find my expression too scary.”

“You know anyone can smile, right?” You ask jovially. “It’s not like a statistical impossibility-“

“It’s not just that,” he interjects sharply. Your smile fades, acknowledging Diluc’s sombre expression that clarified he wasn’t joking around like you thought. However, seeing the change in your attitude sobered him and that sharp glance fades, turning into something remorseful and softer. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap like that.”

“No no, it’s my fault for not taking you seriously. Please, go on.”

“I’m quite boring, you know.” He fiddles with the ends of his leather gloves. “Did you never think that maybe what Klee said could be correct?”

“Never because she’s not correct. Honestly, Diluc, after all these years of being together and hearing what some people have to say about us, I never thought you’d think like this.” 

He casts his gaze downwards. “Because those people don’t know me like you do.” 

Two hands come up to cup his cheeks, gently directing him to look up at you and meet your kind expression. All inhibitions he had melt away at the sight of your smile.

“I can only hope they never do,” you reply simply, confidence lacing your words. 

Being with him is not easy. He is a busy man, one who manages the entirety of Monstadt’s wine business during the day and takes to the shadows to look after your beloved city at night. Yet, despite working with the sun and moon, he still gives all of him to you. For as long as Diluc will allow it, you hope to be the only person he’ll pick baskets of grapes with, play slow games of chess with, and freely lay out his convictions to. 

You’ll be damned to give up your spot beside him without a fight.

Diluc doesn’t believe he deserves the same. “You’re too patient with me. I’ve let you down too much for you to be this forgiving,” he grabs your wrists and gently knocks his forehead against yours. “I can’t give you everything you want.”

“You’re my Diluc, you already are everything.”

© EARTHTOOZ 2024, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

[ao3-shenanigans]

How do ya'll come up with your fic names? I feel like I'll fly through the fic writing process and then come up completely blank on the actual title 😩.

So true!

A short list with some ideas (feel free to add more in the comments)

1. A line of dialogue from the fic.

Ex: “I never loved you.” “I know”

Ex: “Run if you need- I’ve got your back”

2. A song (or lyric from one) that reminds you of your work. A line form a poem also works for this.

Ex: From Eden

Or:  Honey, you're familiar (like my mirror years ago)

Additionally: How I wish he’d go away

3. Describe the fic, old chapter-title style

Ex: The one in which Jon goes on a date

Or: Wherin Sasha makes a confession

4. The central theme

Ex: Grief and What Comes After

Or: Longing (or perhaps lust)

5. An object or location of importance

Ex: Times Square

Or: The Coffee Cup

Feel free to add on or share your favorite/most creative fic titles!

[spitdrunken]

man. still have NOT managed to get my hands on the book of bill because it's sold out literally everywhere over here, but have any of you seen the new 'how not to draw' vid on the disney youtube channel that features bill? it really got me thinking.

notes: fourth wall breaking, obsessive behaviour, unhealthy relationships, implied sexual content, implied mind control

it's heavily implied that the video takes place in a world where gravity falls is supposedly fictional, like our own. bill literally says he's going to break the fourth wall! because i'm a sucker for fourth wall breaks and characters being aware of their own fandom (to an extent), i simply just HAD to run with this scenario.

i just like the idea of 'you' being just a person, some totally, in the large scheme of things, insignificant human walking the earth. you have a tendency for escapism, perhaps. you have always been drawn to stories. you like gravity falls. maybe it was something you watched while you were younger and recently rewatched, or an interest that had never waned. regardless, bill cipher, charismatic and unapologetically evil villain that he is, is one of your favourites.

you doodle him on the edges of paper when you're supposed to be doing anything else. (regardless of anyone's artistic skills, it's not difficult to draw a triangle with a top hat and an eye, is it?) and in this world, you are hardly the only one who likes him, who, perhaps, ships himself with him, who thinks about him a lot. who makes drawings and writes or reads fic. you don't think it's all that unusual.

in a stroke of luck or, depending on how you look at it, the exact opposite, the universe's idea of a cosmic joke, you are the one to catch bill's eye. (it's, after all, much easier to infiltrate the dreams of someone who already has you on their mind. makes sense, doesn't it? a tentative, wavering link had been formed already.) there, in your dreams, he tells you what to say--triangulum, entangulum. meteforis dominus ventium. meteforis venetisarium--and the next morning, you remember it clear as a memory.

you do it. for funsies. why wouldn't you? you don't expect it to actually work. he's a fictional interdimensional demon. why would it work? but much to your surprise, and horror, because surely a screw must've gotten loose for this to be happening, one of your little doodles has life blown to it. as a response to your summon, a tiny little bill cipher darts across your paper, alive but still confined.

(you've given him an in. now, he only has to take the crack you've opened for him, dig his fingers in, and tear it open.)

oh, he'll be funny! he'll be exactly what you thought of him. perhaps he even voices a line of dialogue you swore you wrote down somewhere days prior. yes, he's read whatever you wrote or read, whatever you looked at. he's keeping it himself for now. it's not easy to inflate his ego further, but you might have succeeded. rather than a meatbag, bill first looks upon you with the eye of someone presented with a puppy. fundamentally lesser, but capable of being something with the right training.

he urges you to make a deal with him and the promise he'll act out whatever fantasy you've been cooking up in that brain of yours, even if it's gross and weird and physically impossible!

he'll warp your dimension to make all of it possible!!! it's great!!! don't worry about it!!!!!!

…you don't do it. you don't touch the paper. you've seen the show, and you aren't stupid. bill nearly balks. he'd expected you to be the easiest mark of all time, but he suppose he forgot that even puppies have teeth. that's fine. he can work with this. because even though you have not let him in yet, and you refuse to shake his hand through the paper, you don't seperate yourself from him just yet.

you could oh so easily take the piece of paper he's on and throw it in the nearest shredder. or set him on fire. in you, he recognises lingering curiosity, and the excitement at having stood out, at being chosen, in one way or another. it's not hopeless yet.

he can play a bit of a longer game, then. he's been at this for a long, long time. he'll tolerate the paper he's on being folded into a little square and tucked into your breast pocket, granting him a view of your life and the world you're living in. (all the time, his hunger grows.) your decision not to throw him away ends up being your downfall. spending so much time with bill, letting him joke around with you, complaining about your problems… it takes a while for you to realise that, for a while now, he has not been speaking out loud anymore, but instead through your mind.

a connection that cannot be cut has been formed in between two of you.

on bill's part, he had thorougly expected to be bored. but perhaps it's your genuine interest in him, not the things he's offering, which he does not often see. (he's been down this road before. won't end well. but...) the sheer mundanity of your life that makes him wish he could twist and turn it all around. or just a random alignment of the stars. the heart doesn't always follow logic. in this scenario, at some point, bill realises that he has become genuinely invested in you, too. and at that point, you'll never manage to slip away. he's already dug in his heels in your mind far enough. you had no adequate protection.

he still wants to take over your world. he still wants to escape the discomforting flatness of the paper you've summoned him in. but, perhaps, you two could share that meatsack of a body of yours, before things get that far.

[dixons-sunshine]

Possessed | Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

A/N: Thank you, @darylssunshine and @lazyneonrabbitt for some of the dialogue on this. Happy Halloween, everyone! Loosely inspired by @angelwings-crossbowstrings’s “Trick Or Treat” fic.

(GIF by @dixonscarol)

Daryl Dixon was a brave man. There was almost nothing in the world, old or current, that could terrify the man you loved more than life itself. He did not scare easy at all, and you were beginning to think that perhaps the man just did not have a fearful bone in his body.

Well, that was before you had suggested a horror movie marathon to celebrate Halloween, and you quickly realised that Daryl could indeed be a jumpy mess.

“Babe,” you began through fits of laughter, “it’s just a movie.”

Daryl grumbled and crossed his arms over his chest as he shifted his attention back to the movie that was playing on the television—a luxury that living in the Commonwealth provided you. “Quit yer laughin’, woman. Ain’t nothin’ funny ‘bout this.” He could feel the warmth spreading across his cheeks, and he prayed to whatever higher entity was listening that you could not notice it. “Can we jus’ finish the goddamn movie, please?”

You simply shook your head, clasping a hand over your mouth to stifle your giggles. “Sorry,” you apologised, your words muffled by your hand. “Yeah, we can. Think you can handle it?”

Daryl scoffed and leaned back against the couch, attempting to appear nonchalant. “‘Course I can. Ain’t no fuckin’ wimp.”

Despite his words, the moment the two of you quieted down and turned your attention back to the movie on the screen—Annabelle—another jumpscare happened. It startled Daryl so bad that he instinctively grabbed onto you, his arms wrapping around your shoulders as he shifted closer to you. If he moved any more, he would be clambering onto your lap, and you found it rather endearing.

Choosing not to say anything, and biting your lip to prevent another laugh from escaping your chest, you wrapped your arm around his shoulders, softly trailing your fingers over his arm. However, you barely began offering him comfort when he jumped again, and this time, you could not help the laugh that escaped you.

Daryl grumbled and removed himself from your embrace. He grabbed the remote and paused the movie, before turning back to you. “S’not funny.”

“It is!” you laughed, your hands clutching at your chest as you doubled over. “It’s just… you’re like the toughest person I know! Am I really supposed to believe that a horror film is enough to have you cowering into my lap?”

“I ain’t cowerin’,” Daryl countered with a scoff, but he knew that his words seriously contradicted what you had seen just a few moments prior. “I jus’ dun’ like dolls, s’all, and that bitch s’a haunted one.”

“Wait, seriously?” you asked incredulously. “You don’t like dolls? How come you never told me?”

Daryl shook his head. “‘Cause s’silly,” he mumbled. “I dun’ like them movies ‘bout haunted dolls.”

“Not even Chucky?”

“Nah. Bastard scares the hell outta me.”

“Hun, you could literally dropkick Chucky across the room if he came running after you,” you told him with a light laugh, your eyes sparkling as you looked at your husband.

“He ain’t even s’posed to be runnin’!” Daryl replied exasperatedly. “He’s goddamn plastic!”

“Well, dead people aren’t supposed to be able to run either, and you kill those every day without hesitation.”

The archer let out a small sigh and shook his head. “Yer one to talk. What ‘bout those lil’ spiders ya scream at when ya even so much as see ‘em?”

It was your turn to scoff. “It has eight legs and, like, fifty thousand eyes! That’s not natural.”

“Oh, and a possessed doll is?” Daryl countered, and you knew he had a good point.

“Touché, Dixon,” you conceded with a small smile. You took the remote from his hand and got up, moving towards the small stack of different movies. “How about we watch something else? How does ‘Halloween’ sound?”

Daryl visibly relaxed at that, and a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Sounds amazin’.” When you popped the movie in and flopped down next to him on the couch, Daryl wrapped his arms around you and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Have I ever told ya how much I love ya?”

“You don’t have to. I know you do.” You leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, before pulling away and smiling at him. “Happy Halloween, Dar. I hope Annabelle doesn’t haunt your dreams tonight.”

Daryl groaned, but he smiled nonetheless. “Yer on thin ice, woman.”

“I love you too, Dar.”

Prompt: You’re like the toughest person I know! Am I really supposed to believe that a horror film is enough to have you cowering into my lap?

Taglist: @holdmytesseract @thevegandarkelf (comment/DM to be added or removed.)

[nezukoo-channn]

— giliw ko (Zayne x F!Reader)

Tags: Non-MC F!Reader x Zayne, Reader isn’t MC, Reader uses/gets addressed w female pronouns (she/her), Spanish colonial AU! Not historically accurate , Zayne, Reader, and Caleb are small children during this (around the ages of 7 to 12), appearances of Zayne and readers' parents, possibly OOC Zayne and Caleb , there are translations (not exactly word by word but I translated it based on what's the most accurate thought behind it, it's italicized beside or after the dialogue) , fluff, children making memories together (kids being kids) , different social classes (note that you and Zayne don't have the same social classes, explains why your family works for him)

A/N: this is my first time writing lnds fanfic so please be kind 🥹. this is the prologue of the main story, there will be a part 2! I haven't written in so long and I haven't written fanfiction for even longer, I'm so sorry for the OOC and the possible errors this fic had, I tried my best to proof read and do some editing and corrections. Any reblogs or form of love is appreciated by me thank you! 💖

Wc: 2.2k words

Dedicated to: @deusfoundry (thank you for being the first person who listened to my idea and supported me throughout its creation, I hope i don't disappoint you 🙇‍♀️)

Taglist for this fic : none yet

Divider by : @saradika-graphics

Prologue

⋆⁺₊❅。

Zayne remembers the first time he met you.

He was seven years old when his mother introduced you. His mother had looked around and asked if any child was perhaps his age who could get along with his quiet personality. Luckily, your mother, one of the maids that helped raised him, had you, a child around his age. As a child, you had long hair, bright eyes that shone under the bright morning light, and skin that glowed under the sun’s comfort. You step forward, bowing to him.

“Y/N.” You say, glancing up at him and stretching out a hand to him, waiting for him to accept it. “Ano ang pangngalan mo?” What's your name?

Zayne takes your hand and hovers his lips against yours. His mother’s eyes widened, surprised by her son’s actions. Meanwhile, yours stares in disbelief at his actions, yet no expression of disdain or anger paints their faces.

“Zayne.” He says, his quiet voice slips out of his tongue. “Ang pangngalan ko ay Zayne, binibining Y/N. Natutuwa kita makilala.” I'm Zayne, Miss Y/N. Nice to meet you.

Zayne remembers your bright laughter.

You shake your head at his introduction, remarking about how formal he sounds for a boy around the same age as you. He tries to defend himself, saying that he wanted to make a good impression and yet, you continue to laugh. You look up to your mother and his, remarking about the way he acted and greeted you out loud. Before your mother can scold you about your mouth and behavior, his laughs.

“Ganyan talaga siya, iha.” His mother remarks about her son’s behavior, “Parehas sila ng ama niya.” He's like that, my dear. Acts a lot like his father.

You nodded at their words, but honestly, you couldn't care any less. You look at Zayne, still standing in front of you. Taking his hand in yours , you made a beeline towards the outside. Your small feet pass through their family’s beautiful garden with various flowers, shrubs, and individuals who helped maintain it.

You stop every once in a while to appreciate its beautiful colors and sweet smells. You take a whiff of Jasmines, grab Santans that fell on the ground below, and carry Plumerias in your spare hand, dragging Zayne behind you at all times.

Past the garden, you weave through the grass and onto the vast plantation fields. It was already late in the morning, the plants tower over your small heads as the sun shines down. There were people working on the fields, making sure that the rice being planted can be eventually harvested once the season comes. You pass through them all, making sure to give way to yourself and your new friend (despite the sighs of the workers, mainly from your father and grandfather).

Meanwhile, inside, your mother and his laughs. “Ganyan ba talaga ang anak mo?” Is she always like this? She asks, her voice in disbelief. She glances outside, their silhouettes already gone. Her question was one of pure genuine curiosity rather than offense. Your mother looks up from what she is doing and nods.

“Opo, Señora. Ganyan talaga ang anak ko.” Yes, she's always like that. Your mother answers and proceeds to resume her cleaning. His mother smiles, giving a nod of approval before leaving.

Zayne remembers what the first few days of his life was with you in the picture.

Most days, he was quiet and observant, kept to himself, liked to read and follow his parents, who were doctors in their small town, everywhere. He observes the way they treat patients, going above and beyond to help others in need in their small barrio. He was exposed to various people of various ages and social classes but would watch from afar, making sure he wouldn’t disturb his parents’ work.

But ever since you came…things slowly changed.

He’d still follow his parents around, but everytime you wanted to play and talk to him, he’d drop what he was doing to accompany you. You laugh, talking to him in what little Spanish and mostly Tagalog you knew and he’d listen along. Most days start early with you helping around the house. Your mother and the other maids would give you little tasks to do, like cleaning up and wiping down the tables to keep you entertained for a while until Zayne was awake and spent the whole day together.

However, your most important task was given by Zayne’s mother, days after you two had met and begun to get along.

“Iha,” Dear His mother calls for you and you approach, dusting your skirt the way you saw your mother and women do when she calls for them.

“Opo, Señora?” Yes , Maam? Your high-pitched voice replies.

“Masaya ka rito? Kumusta kayo ng anak ko? Narinig ko sa ina mo na palaging kayo naglalaro at tinuturuan ka rin niya magbasa?” Are you enjoying it here? How are you and Zayne? I heard from your mother that you two play together often and he's been teaching you how to read?

You nod immediately and begin to ramble about the various activities the two of you like to do together, such as him teaching you how to read and write, and in turn, you teach him to play various kids games you knew and help him slowly break out of his quiet exterior. His mother nods along, smiling at your anecdotes. Once you are done, you realize what happened . You look down at the ground, trying to avoid her gaze.

“Lo..lo siento, Señora…” I'm sorry, Maam. You whisper in apology. She waves her hand, dismissing it. You glance up, and a smile returns to your face.

“Natutuwa ako, iha. Saan magpatuloy ito dahil hindi ko pa nakita na palaging ngumiti ang anak ko.” I'm glad to hear that, my dear. I hope it continues because I haven't seen my son smile so frequently. She smiles before dismissing you off. You thank her before running to Zayne’s room upstairs, ready to start a new day with him.

You remember how you two played with each other.

Your hands intertwined as you ran through the fields. He greets workers a pleasant morning before you continue to drag him along. Far away from the fields, you both reach a small clearing. It was mostly flat, with several trees standing tall to shade you both. There you spend your days together, playing and laughing. Zayne would tease you, and in turn, you tease him back. There were days he’d bring books, teaching you how to read and write your names in the dirt. In turn, you teach him how to climb a tree (which didn’t go as planned) and how to play the games you knew until lunch comes around and you both head back home.

After lunch, the house is silent. You and Zayne find your own small space in a large house to simply do one thing: to take an afternoon nap before playing with each other throughout the afternoon until dinner.

That was your routine everyday. Some other days had exceptions, but it felt exciting as you two played and knew more about each other. You knew that Zayne likes stray kittens or any feline in general, and hates carrots, picking at his food whenever there was the sight of it. It was the exact reason why your grandmother, the one who cooks at his family's, always removed carrots from his meals.

Most of all, you know that you are one of his friends—his only friend maybe, but for the ever quiet and observant Zayne, that was enough.

Besides you being Zayne’s friend, your playmate, a boy around your age named Caleb joined along.

You three did everything together despite your different backgrounds and families. It didn't seem to be a problem as you were children , barely the ages of 10, enjoying what it's like to be children.

However, that all came to an end one afternoon.

You three were playing at your usual spot, with Zayne quietly leaning against the tall tree, Caleb lying down against the blades of grass, laughing , and you, standing over both boys with a large grin on your face. You were gloating about how you finally won against Caleb in a game of tag while he groaned in annoyance , grumbling about your loud and obnoxious behavior.

“Ang ingay…” Zayne grumbles teasingly, “Ano ba ka? Isang bata?” You're so loud...what are you? A baby?

You glance up at him. “At ano ka ba?” You retorted, “Isang matandang tao?” And what are you? An old man?

He sighs.

Silence slowly begins to envelope you three as you join them,  sitting down on the grassy fields. The sun had begun to set, showing a various array of different colors. Red bleeds into orange and yellow, with shades of pink appearing to dot the horizon as well. 

“Aalis ako dito.” I'm leaving. Zayne says. You and Caleb pause, glancing up to him. You stared at him in disbelief,  thinking he was kidding. 

“Huh?!” You and Caleb spit out, staring in disbelief of his words. “Bakit?” Why?

“Pupunta ako sa Maynila…at baka naman sa Europa or sa Asya , hindi ko pa alam—para mag-aral ng medisina.” I'm leaving for Manila, and maybe Europe or other parts of Asia, Im not sure yet— but Im leaving to study medicine one day. Zayne answers.

Manila was a large place, the crown jewel of the Philippines and the seat of Spanish colonial authority. It is the place where people go to and, in turn, leave their families behind for a hope of a better life for them.

Manila is the place where dreamers live, where the tall walls and gates in Intramuros block the rich and known from everyone else.

You remember stories about your parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, visiting the city of Manila. You remember how your eyes brightened with excitement as you wanted to know more about her beauty.

Manila is a flame, and all the people flock like moths towards it.

And Europe.

It was even bigger than Manila, a whole continent, even. The seats of Imperial powers. The place that only a lucky few that have the right money and privilege can feel her luxurious embrace.

If Manila was like winning one lottery ticket , then going to Europe was like winning the whole casino.

You and Caleb look at each other. Zayne was leaving. You don't know when you'll see him again, or if you'll ever see him either. You kept a bare face, trying not to let the tears from your eyes fall. Caleb got up from the grass and squeezed your hand.

“Talaga?” Your voice says, almost cracking from the shock. “Aalis ka?” Really? You're leaving?

Zayne nods, confirming his fate.

“Kailan ka babalik?” Will you return? Was your next question.

Zayne shrugs his shoulders. “H…hindi ko alam kung kailan…” I don't know when.

You pause. He wasn't sure when he's coming back. You aren't sure if he's even coming back alive in the first place— would he even remember all the times you played together if he leaves? What if he doesn't come back? You sniffle, trying to wipe the invisible tears from your face.

Caleb was quiet. He stares at Zayne as well. He knows that Zayne leaving would break your heart. He gets up and approaches, pulling you and Zayne into a tight hug.

Zayne didn't know if he'll be able to live with your heart broken for a dream beyond the comforts of the province.

And that's when you started to cry.

You sobbed, staining everyone's clothes with snot as you sniffled. You wiped your tears, grumbling a thing or two about the way you're acting. Tears continue to stream down your face as it becomes hard for you to breathe, your throat closing up from all the tears you exhuasted out. Zayne and Caleb noticed your struggle and step away, giving you the needed space to breathe.

No words were exchanged between you three as you held each other and cried until sun down. You helped wipe each other's tears before looking back at the direction of home and begin to walk home, taking slow steps to absorb one of the last moments you three had together before reality stepped in.

You remembered the day Zayne left.

You were helping your mother and the other women clean the house when Zayne approached you, his father standing a bit farther away. He was dressed up nicely, in clothes similar to boys his age and around his social circle. His hair was done as well, his black strands in place.

You dusted your skirt, pressed the wrinkled ends of your blouse and fixed your messy hair. Your hands still had invisible dust stuck onto them, yet you tried to get rid of it.

It was a stark contrast between the both of you.

A reminder that in the end, he was a son of rich doctors from notable families.

And, there was you. Just an ordinary girl, born to ordinary parents , and set out to live an ordinary life.

At least, in the few years that you knew each other, social classes and privilege never mattered.

“Aalis na ako.” I'm leaving. He says, taking your hand in his. He lowers his lips against it, placing a soft kiss. You wipe a tear from your eye with your other hand, trying not to cry. He lets go of your hand, picking something from his pocket before handing it to you.

You tilt your head, staring at the small thing beneath your palms. It was a small flower, its colors faded. Its beautiful White turned into a soft Brown. The sweet smell laced lightly across its small petals. You held the small flower on the palm of your hand and smiled.

“Ang Ganda…” Its beautiful... You whisper in amazement. He nods, smiling as well.

“Bibigyan kita ng maraming magandang bulaklak sa pagbalik ko…” I'll bring you beautiful flowers when I return..

He promises. His father calls for him, making Zayne look away from you and return to his Father. You waved goodbye to each other, seeing them leave the house and close the door behind them.

You glanced down at the flower again, before placing the dried flower inside your pocket, patting it gently before getting back to work.

[heavensenteden]

✎ the art of ruin | nsfw fic 🔞

☆彡

oh my god back to back fics! who is she?

finally. crowe fic. my man my man my man.

this is kind of self indulgent cause i like the idea of crowe being possessive and wanting to watch you fall apart in his hands type beat.

i also realized that all my fics are fem readers so pls bear with me, i’ll work on my gender neutral and male writing skills for you guys <3

also i tried this fic and last fic to space it out so it’s easier on the eyes to read? idk lmk what yall think ok much love mwah !

link to ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62636683?view_adult=true

pls minors dni and dnr ⭐️

word count: 2189

💫˖ ִֶָ 𓂃⭒

Audio from the TV filled the room, muffled into an almost distant hum by the noise-canceling headphones wrapped snugly around your ears. Even if you tried, you wouldn’t be able to make out the dialogue that was being spoken out into your tiny apartment, not that it mattered.

Your mind was elsewhere, drifting, unraveling, caught in the slow and steady descent Crowe was single-handedly orchestrating.

He had come over earlier that evening to check up on you, since you had missed class that day. You weren’t sick or anything, just felt like sleeping in, and he had suggested you two watch a movie together!

He spent his time, too much of it, deliberately choosing something for the both of you to "watch," despite knowing full well that your sight would be stolen from you before the opening credits had even finished rolling. You never even got a glimpse of what he had picked out.

Not that you needed to.

Seated on your cozy couch, you found yourself trapped against him, your back pressed flush to his chest as he lounged like this was all routine. Your legs were splayed open, pinned in place by his knees, ensuring there was no room for modesty, no escape from the deliberate tease and taunts of his slow and steady touches.

His fingers traced along your body nice and slow, featherlight patterns over your bare skin, savoring the way you shivered under his touch. Every so often, he’d pause, catching a nipple between his fingers, rolling it between the pads of his fingers just to feel you squirm.

And yet, despite the helpless, breathy sounds falling from your lips, he seemed oddly absorbed in the movie, like he could multitask with ease, like this wasn’t even effort for him, but you felt that was expected from the student council president, right?

Then, the sharp sting of his teeth on the back of your neck made you jolt in his lap, a sharp gasp escaping before you could even think to swallow it down. Your mouth parted uselessly, searching for words, but they quickly died on your tongue before they could even begin to form.

Crowe merely exhaled a quiet chuckle, his breath hot against your skin, and pressed his fingers closer to your clit, circling lazily, like he had all the time in the world to unravel you, you were his in this moment, his starlight, his goddess.

A whimper left your throat, your hips rolling into his touch on instinct, silently begging for more, for anything, for mercy, or perhaps, for the opposite. But when you tried to squeeze your legs shut, to stifle the hot and aching need between them, his knees held you firm, forcing you open, keeping you right where he wanted you.

The silk binding your wrists behind your back strained as you twisted, struggling against it, desperate for friction. But Crowe merely pulled you in tighter, an arm braced around your middle, his slight display of strength becoming an unspoken command: Behave.

A sharp tug at your nipple again made you cry out, the sting of it stealing what little composure you had left. It was as if he was wordlessly scolding you, pulling on you just enough to remind you of who was in control. And when your cries softened into breathy whimpers, he smoothed over the abused skin with slow, soothing strokes, as if to reward your submission.

Crowe was nothing if not patient. He played the long game, coaxing you toward the edge only to pull you back, time and time again, until the anticipation left you trembling, wrecked, desperate to know how far he’d take it. Until the need pooled so thick and heavy in your stomach that you couldn’t think, couldn’t focus, couldn’t breathe beyond him.

He’d never say it out loud, not with his outwardly prince-like demeanour but, he wanted you to depend on him.

To be desperate for him.

And still, he carried on, lazy circles over your clit, fluttering, teasing, devastatingly slow. You could barely move. Couldn’t see past the black silk blindfold tied securely over your eyes. The world beyond your body, beyond his touch, had long since ceased to exist.

And Crowe?

Well, he was having the time of his life watching you fall apart.

You couldn’t hear anything from the TV, not that it mattered anyways, Crowe had made sure of that, slipping noise-canceling headphones over your ears before your little ‘session’ started, robbing you of everything but the sensation of his touch. Every little sound, every quiet breath, was drowned out, leaving you helplessly tuned in to the language of his hands.

His lips brushed over the nape of your neck, warm and insistent, while a lithe hand traced idle patterns along your belly, teasing, never settling in one place for too long. Your body twitched under his touch, your walls pulsing, desperate, stretched around the fingers he’d kept inside you for what felt like an eternity.

He had you like this for over an hour now, helpless, trembling, on the verge of being ruined, and judging by the lazy way his fingers curled inside you, he had no intention of finishing up anytime soon.

Shifting beneath you, Crowe adjusted his position on the couch, and then very slowly, he pressed his fingers deeper, curling them upwards against that sweet spot of yours.

The sudden jolt of pleasure made you cry out, your body lurching forward, only to collapse back against his chest with a broken moan. You needed more, needed everything, needed to come undone right there in his lap.

Your restless movements made him push in even deeper, his fingers unrelenting, stroking against that spot inside you that made everything else dissolve into white-hot pleasure. A sob tore from your throat, but it fell into empty space, unheard, swallowed by the silence the headphones forced upon you.

You needed to cum. You ached for it, craved it, your mind reduced to nothing but the singular, all-consuming desire to be taken apart completely. You wanted him to ruin you, to fuck you so hard you’d feel it for days, to have him finish inside you so deep that the evidence of it would spill out with every step you took afterward.

The thought made you shudder, made you grind desperately against his hand, trying, begging, to chase your release. But Crowe wasn’t feeling generous. Not yet.

Without warning, he withdrew his fingers completely.

The loss was excruciating. You wailed, the sound broken, desperate, a sob ripping free as you clenched around nothing. Your body trembled, your blindfold damp with fresh tears, your frustration boiling over into full-body tremors.

Crowe’s hands skimmed over your trembling form, stroking over your thighs, your stomach, as if to soothe the pain.

'Not yet', he mouthed against the curve of your shoulder. Soft kisses followed, an apology, a promise, whispered against your skin, though the words themselves were lost to the silence around you.

Only once your sobs had quieted, once the peak you’d been dragged toward had dissolved into something distant, did he finally move again.

A slow, deliberate roll of his hips. The first teasing press of his cock nudging against your entrance.

Your head lolled forward, your whole body quaking, fresh tears slipping down your cheeks as he continued, taunting, patient, easing himself against you in a torturously slow rhythm.

Crowe, ever so cruel, ever so loving, had told you before this had even begun that he’d only let you cum once the movie ended.

What you didn’t know was that he had paused it ages ago.

Crowe waited until you stopped shaking before he started again, slowly pushing himself into you, and waiting until you were settled onto his cock. He pressed soft kisses onto your skin, along your back, your neck, your shoulders.

Then once you were calmed down, he started fucking into you, stretching you open all over again. Overwhelmed, overstimulated, you wailed at the sensation, only now realizing that you were begging out loud for him, desperate, babbling, incoherent.

You were so fucking close. Your entire body tensed, every nerve set aflame, and then, finally, after what felt like an eternity, your release crashed into you like a tidal wave. The tension shattered, sending violent tremors through your frame as you convulsed in Crowe’s arms, your body surrendering to him completely.

You were still mindlessly babbling, blindly seeking his lips, but they were just out of reach. Instead, Crowe’s hands slid down to your hips, holding you flush against him as he rocked you slowly back and forth, keeping you full, keeping you stuffed. You whimpered, your body too raw, too sensitive, the aftershocks still rolling through you in weak, helpless tremors.

Then he slowed, just enough to reach up and untie the drenched blindfold. It fell to the side of the couch as your vision returned, hazy and unfocused. You blinked sluggishly, adjusting to the dim room before tilting your head up to look at him, only to find disappointment in his eyes.

A soft kiss against your temple. A chiding murmur.

“My starlight.”

Your stomach twisted at his tone.

“You only had ten more minutes left.”

Your eyes flickered to the television. Spirited Away. One of your favorite movies. And sure enough, the little bar at the bottom of the tv screen taunted you by displaying that only ten minutes remained.

“I-”

Crowe hushed you with a gentle press of his fingers to your clit. A soft circle. A gentle touch. It sent a full-body shudder through you, your limbs twitching against him from the aftershocks of your previous orgasm.

“You couldn’t wait just a little longer?” His voice was sweet. Too sweet. “How impatient, my goddess.”

And then, he thrust himself back in, slow and steady.

“Now,” he murmured, lips grazing your ear. “What’s to be done about that, hm?”

Another thrust. Deep and measured. His cock filled you completely, stretching you all over again. Your fingers curled weakly into the fabric of his shirt, fresh tears welling in your eyes as your body fought to process the relentless pleasure and the aching overstimulation at the same time.

“You feel so good wrapped around me,” he praised, voice thick with satisfaction.

“C-Crowe, please…”

“So warm.” A thrust.

“So wet.” Kisses along your throat, soft, possessive.

A moan, hushed and breathless, spilled against your skin as he bottomed out, stuffing you full. Your eyes rolled back, the sensation overwhelming, every inch of him dragging in and out with practiced control. You were sobbing now, gasping for air, trembling like a leaf in his arms.

It was too much. Too much. It burned, your body was strung too tight, almost past its limits. And yet, you wanted to be good. You needed to be good for him.

One more thrust. Then another. The pleasure built, almost unbearable, but at the same time unstoppable, and then you came again, this time it was painful and all-consuming.

The pain mixed in with the pleasure, the intensity of it all tore through you at once, your body locking up as the orgasm crashed over you.

Your scream barely made it past your lips before Crowe shoved his fingers into your mouth, muffling your cries as he kept you still, kept you grounded, kept you exactly where he wanted you.

“There you are, my love,” he purred.

His eyes were glazed, dark, fixated on you, trembling, drooling over his fingers, completely and utterly undone.

“Just a little longer, okay?”

And then, his rhythm changed. Smooth, controlled thrusts gave way to something more desperate, more erratic. His breath hitched, his hips snapping forward as he chased his own release, using your body to reach his end. You whined in protest, your body already spent, already ruined, but there was no stopping him now.

“P-Please…”

You screamed. Your body spasmed, another orgasm ripping through you violently, liquid spilling between your thighs, soaking his lap. Crowe groaned, a sharp, guttural sound, as he pulled you down onto him, grinding deep, burying himself to the hilt. A higher-pitched moan caught in his throat as he spilled inside you, thick and hot, filling you to the brim.

A shaky hand caught your chin, tilting your face up, and he was now kissing you, his tongue chasing yours, consuming you entirely, sealing his satisfaction against your lips.

The room was silent. Humid. Only the sound of shared, ragged breaths filled the space, the air thick with sweat and sex. Crowe pressed one last kiss to your lips, murmuring praises between the lazy, lingering touches.

“I’m so, so proud of you my starlight.”

You only barely registered the words. Spent, boneless, you melted against his chest, tracing lazy patterns against his shirt with trembling fingers. Your body was almost vibrating, exhausted, but the warmth of his embrace kept you safe, kept you grounded. Your breath evened out, your eyes fluttering shut. Sleep was already pulling you under.

Crowe huffed softly, shaking you gently. “No, you need to shower.”

You didn’t move.

He sighed. Oh well.

You could clean up in the morning.

[therogueflame]

The Small Council

Hi my sweet baby angels,

Here is the long overdue Aemond fic I promised all those moons ago. I hope you enjoy it, this one was definitely interesting to write. Writing someone as calculated as Aemond was a different kind of difficult, but using the dialogue from the show with Alicent did help quite a bit. Please let me know what you think! (Also if anyone can point me in the direction of making those cool like three gif/pic banner things cool authors put on their fics that would be so great love you bye.)

✨My Masterlist✨

Summary: A brief conversation between the Queen Dowager and the Prince Regent brings you unexpectedly to the precipice of action.

WC: 5.0k

Warnings: 18+, sex (p in v), oral (f!recieving), multiple orgasm, cheating, no use of y/n, public sex, implied fem!reader

Aemond Targaryen x Mistress!Reader

MDNI!!!

Aemond remained seated at the head of the council table, exuding an air of effortless authority. The chamber had begun to empty, the scrape of chairs and measured footsteps fading into the corridor beyond. Only the crackle of the hearth and the rustle of parchment lingered in the stillness. His fingers drummed idly against the carved wood, his expression unreadable as he watched the last figures depart.

Alicent was nearly at the door, walking beside Ser Criston, her hands clasped tightly, her posture poised yet rigid. Afternoon light streamed through the high windows, casting sharp angles across the chamber floor.

“Mother? A word.”

His voice cut through the space, measured—a command rather than a request.

Alicent halted, her lips pressing together as if steeling herself. Then, slowly, she turned, her gaze unreadable as she stepped back toward him. “I caution you, Aemond—boldness is one thing, but—”

“I am relieving you of your place on the small council.”

Silence stretched between them, taut as a drawn bowstring. Alicent did not waver. “You know very well I represented your father in his final years and have counseled Aegon.”

“Capably so.” Aemond’s tone was even, unruffled. “Father is dead. Aegon is… mmm.” He exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly as though considering his phrasing. “You served the realm well in its time of need. That need has ended. You are no longer obliged.”

Alicent’s chin lifted, her gaze sharpening. “It is not a matter of obligation. This council is in need of a tempering voice.”

Aemond’s mouth twitched, something too faint to be a smirk but just as dismissive. “We have more than enough of those, if you ask me.”

Her shoulders squared. “You have the recklessness of ease. And its arrogance. Neither of which befits a king.”

His fingers stilled against the table. He did not flinch, did not betray so much as a flicker of reaction, but something shifted in the air between them. “I release you from your seat, such as it was. I trust you’ll find contentment in more... domestic pursuits.”

Alicent stepped forward then, close enough that the afternoon light slanting through the chamber windows cast a gentle glow over her face. She reached out, fingertips light as they pressed to his cheek—a touch meant to soothe, perhaps, or to remind.

“Have the indignities of your childhood not yet been sufficiently avenged?”

Aemond’s hand caught her wrist, his grip firm, but not unkind. The moment stretched, heavy with words unspoken. Then, slowly, Alicent pulled away. She did not look back as she turned, nor did she speak. Aemond stood, movements smooth, deliberate, and watched as she disappeared beyond the threshold.

“You have the gratitude of the Crown,” he said at last, though the words were spoken to the empty air.

The door closed behind her, leaving him alone in the hush of the chamber, the afternoon light stretching long across the stone. Aemond exhaled, long and slow, before turning back toward the window. He clasped his hands behind his back, posture rigid as he gazed out over King’s Landing. The city stretched before him, its streets winding and endless, its people moving below like ants, oblivious to the shifting of power within the Red Keep. The faint sound of the door opening again caught his ear, but he did not turn. He already knew who it was.

You hesitated in the doorway, the soft click of the latch settling into place behind you. He did not turn. You had not expected him to. Still, a quiet unease curled in your stomach as you took a measured step forward, the train of your gown whispering against the stone floor.

“My prince.”

His only response was a slow inhale through his nose. “My lady.”

He still did not look at you, his gaze fixed on the sprawl of the city below. That suited you just fine. You had no desire to meet his eye just yet, not after overhearing what had passed between him and the Dowager Queen. You had not lingered to eavesdrop—not intentionally, at least—but whispers carried through these halls like a restless wind. And you had learned long ago that it was wiser to listen than to be caught unprepared.

“You’re troubled,” you said, choosing your words carefully.

That earned you something—a quiet exhale, almost a laugh, though it held no true mirth. “What keen insight,” he murmured, finally turning to face you.

Aemond’s gaze swept over you, cool and assessing, and though you stood still beneath it, you felt the weight of it settle on your skin. You were no one of great consequence, no rival, no threat—merely a courtier, the wife of another lord. But you had remained in the Red Keep long past what was necessary, and he had noticed.

He noticed everything.

“Shall I presume you were listening at the door?”

The corner of your mouth lifted, though you did not dare call it a smile. “No, my prince. The halls carry sound.”

His expression did not shift, though something in his gaze sharpened. “And what have you come to tell me?”

You hesitated only a moment before lowering your head, a gesture of deference, though not entirely without purpose. “Only that I thought you might appreciate the presence of one who has no quarrel with you.”

Aemond studied you for a long moment, the afternoon light cutting across his features, sharpening the angles of his face. His silence was weighty, deliberate, yet you did not move.

“You believe I am in need of comfort,” he murmured, stepping forward.

You did not step back. “I believe you are in need of company.”

A breath passed between you, heavy with something unspoken. The chamber was empty now. The smallfolk below were nothing more than distant echoes. The day stretched before you, uncertain yet light.

His lips curved, slow and deliberate. “Then stay.”

You stepped closer, the soft rustle of your pale yellow skirts barely breaking the silence between you. Aemond remained as he was—tall, composed, hands still clasped behind his back—but you saw the shift in his gaze, the way his eye flickered over you in quiet recognition.

“You wear yellow,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, edged with something more thoughtful than before.

You tilted your head slightly, watching him. “Should I not?”

His lips twitched, the barest ghost of amusement, though it never fully formed. “It does not suit your purpose.”

A small smile found its way to your lips. “And what do you think my purpose is?”

Aemond did not answer immediately. He let the silence linger, his eye sweeping over you—your gown, your posture, the way you stood before him without hesitation. It was a game, this dance between you. Yours was a connection made in the quiet corners of the castle, in the moments stolen between duty and discretion. He had taken you first out of spite, his own cold, calculated revenge against a man who had slighted him. But what had begun as punishment had not ended so cleanly.

It was not hatred that brought you here tonight.

Aemond finally turned fully to face you, the sunlight catching on the sharp planes of his face, throwing half of it into shadow. “You came to me of your own will,” he said, a statement rather than a question.

You hummed lightly, a sound that was neither confirmation nor denial. “Would you like to believe that?”

His gaze darkened slightly, though not with anger. With something else, something heavier, something that had long since settled between you both.

“I believe,” Aemond said, voice low, “that you should be more careful of whose company you keep.”

You lifted a brow. “And yet, here I stand.”

A pause. A slow breath. Aemond reached out, fingers brushing against the fabric of your sleeve—light, testing. Not claiming, not yet.

“You should go,” he said, but the words carried no weight.

“I should,” you agreed, though neither of you moved.

Another long silence stretched between you, the kind that always came before you surrendered to what had long since become inevitable.

His fingers curled around your wrist, firm but deliberate, drawing you just a fraction closer. Your breath shallowed, your pulse quickening as his thumb brushed idly along the inside of your wrist. He was warm, even through his gloves. You knew that touch well.

“You wear yellow,” he murmured again, this time with something close to satisfaction. “Like a wife meant to be untouched.”

You let your lips part slightly, watching him, waiting.

Aemond tilted his head, considering. Then, his grip tightened ever so slightly, guiding your hand to rest against his chest, just over the slow, steady beat of his heart.

“And yet,” he murmured, his voice dropping to something almost intimate, almost soft, “we both know better.”

You watched him, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath your palm, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat betraying none of the control he so carefully maintained. There was something intoxicating about the way Aemond looked at you—like he already owned you, like you had always been meant to stand before him like this, close enough for him to touch, close enough for him to take.

His eye flickered downward, tracing the shape of your fingers splayed against the black leather of his tunic before he released your wrist, the warmth of his touch lingering even after he pulled away. Without a word, he turned and moved back toward the head of the council table, settling into the chair with a quiet ease, as if he belonged nowhere else.

You lingered a moment longer before following, stepping forward until you reached the table. The cold stone bit into your palms as you leaned back against it, shifting just enough to let your skirts sweep over the edge. You hovered between standing and sitting, the table supporting just enough of your weight to suggest ease without fully surrendering to it. Instead, you turned your head to face him, meeting his gaze from where he sat at the head of the table. Not quite relaxed, but not so formal either. A silent challenge.

Aemond studied you from his seat, his fingers tapping idly against the wood. “You make yourself comfortable.”

You shifted slightly, the fabric of your gown whispering against the stone. “Should I not?”

The ghost of a smirk crossed his lips. “You enjoy testing me.”

You exhaled lightly, not quite a laugh, tilting your head. “Do I?”

Aemond said nothing, only watched you, the sunlight filtering through the high windows casting shifting shadows across his face. You had known him long enough to understand what that silence meant. He was considering you, weighing your presence, deciding what he wanted from you today

And you would give it to him.

His eye flickered down, a slow sweep of your gown, the delicate fabric stretched over your form in soft, yielding folds. The color was warm, too gentle against the harsh stone of the council chamber, against the cold weight of the crownless throne he had claimed.

“You do not wear this color for me,”he murmured, almost idly.

Your fingers curled against the edge of the table, the cool bite of stone grounding you. “No,” you admitted. “But that does not mean I did not come for you.”

Aemond hummed low in his throat, a sound of acknowledgment, of something almost pleased. He leaned forward slightly, resting an arm against the table, his gaze steady. “Say it, then.”

You arched a brow. “Say what, my prince?”

His lips curved, though the amusement did not quite reach his eye. “That you came for me.”

You inhaled slowly, letting the tension stretch between you, letting it coil and settle before you finally spoke.

“I came for you.”

Aemond’s fingers stilled against the wood, his gaze dark and knowing. He did not move at first, only let the weight of your words settle before he pushed his chair back slightly, rising to his feet once more.

His presence was suffocating in the best way, the sheer weight of him as he stood before you, close enough to touch, close enough to remind you of exactly why you were here.

His gloved hand lifted, fingers grazing along the curve of your jaw, featherlight but deliberate.

“And what shall I do with you, now that you have?”

Your breath hitched, the heat of his touch seeping through the delicate barrier of your composure. The chamber, vast and cold, felt smaller with him towering over you, the air between you charged and heavy. Aemond’s fingers trailed from your jaw to the delicate line of your neck, his thumb pressing gently against the pulse fluttering just beneath your skin—a subtle reminder of the power he held over you.

Your eyes did not leave his, refusing to grant him the satisfaction of your surrender, even as your body betrayed you, leaning just a fraction closer to the warmth radiating from him.

“What shall you do with me, my prince?” you murmured, your voice a low hum that barely bridged the distance between you.

Aemond’s lips twitched, the barest hint of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “I could send you back to your lord husband,” he said, the words a dark promise, “make you walk these halls with the knowledge of where your loyalties truly lie.”

The suggestion sent a thrill down your spine, the dangerous game you played with him only stoking the fire that had long since consumed your common sense. “And if I said my loyalty was to you?”

Aemond’s eye narrowed, a flicker of satisfaction mingled with possessiveness tightening his grip ever so slightly. “Then I would say you have chosen wisely.”

You felt his other hand settle at your waist, pulling you off the table’s edge until you were flush against him, the hard planes of his body pressing into your softer curves. The cold stone was forgotten, replaced by the searing heat of him, of the knowledge that, for now, you were his alone.

“I have chosen you,” you confessed, voice breathless against the sharp lines of his jaw. “Again and again.”

His lips found yours, the kiss consuming, leaving no room for second thoughts or regrets. Aemond’s fingers tightened at your waist, pulling you impossibly closer as his mouth moved over yours—demanding, claiming. Each press and pull was a reminder of what you had surrendered to him, of what he had taken from your husband, of the way you had given yourself willingly.

When he finally pulled back, his breathing was as measured as ever, but his eye was dark, his gaze heavy-lidded and intent.

“You come to me in secret,” he murmured, his thumb brushing along your lower lip, swollen from his kiss. “And yet, I think you wish to be caught.”

You held his gaze, defiance and desire mingling in the depths of your eyes. “Perhaps I do,” you whispered. “Or perhaps I trust you to protect what is yours.”

The words struck a chord in him, a gleam of something dangerous and possessive lighting his gaze. Aemond’s hands slid down, gripping your hips firmly as he lifted you onto the edge of the council table, the hard stone pressing into the backs of your thighs through the thin fabric of your gown.

He stepped between your legs, his presence overwhelming, your skirts tangling around his knees as he closed the space between you. Aemond’s fingers splayed against your back, pulling you forward, leaving no room for hesitation or modesty.

“I will protect what is mine,” he vowed, his voice a rasp against your ear, the words sending a shiver of anticipation racing down your spine. “And you, my lady, are very much mine.”

Your hands found their way into his hair, fingers tangling in the silvery strands as you pulled him into another kiss, this one slower, deeper, the taste of possession mingling with the thrill of secrecy.

He pulled away for a moment, his expression that of a determined man. Yours was tinged with confusion, but the confusion ceased when his face soon disappeared beneath the fabric, and other sensations began to take over.

Your fingers tightened in Aemond's hair as his mouth found the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. A soft gasp escaped your lips, the sound echoing in the empty chamber. His touch was deliberate, calculated, each press of his lips and scrape of his teeth designed to unravel you piece by piece.

The yellow fabric of your gown pooled around your waist, a stark contrast to the dark leather of his gloves as he gripped your hips, holding you steady against the unforgiving edge of the table. You could feel the heat of his breath against your skin, the anticipation building with each passing moment.

"Aemond," you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper.

He paused, lifting his gaze to meet yours. In the afternoon light, you could see the intensity burning in his eye, the raw desire etched into every line of his face.

"Patience," Aemond murmured against your skin, his voice low and commanding. "You came to me. Now you'll take what I give you."

His words sent a shiver through you, a mix of anticipation and surrender. You relaxed back onto your elbows, the cold stone of the table a stark contrast to the heat building within you. Aemond's hands slid along your thighs, pushing them further apart as he settled between them.

The first touch of his tongue against you drew a soft gasp from your lips. Your head fell back, eyes fluttering closed as he worked you with deliberate, measured strokes. Each movement was calculated, designed to build your pleasure slowly, inexorably.

Aemond's grip on your hips tightened, holding you in place as your body began to tremble.

Your fingers curled against the smooth surface of the table, seeking purchase as Aemond's ministrations intensified. The cool stone beneath you was a stark contrast to the heat of his mouth, the warmth of his hands as they held you steady. Your breath came in short, shaky gasps, each exhale threatening to form his name.

Aemond worked with the same focused determination he applied to all his pursuits. His tongue moved in deliberate patterns, alternating between long, languid strokes and quick, precise flicks that sent jolts of pleasure coursing through your body. You could feel the tension building, coiling tighter with each passing moment.

A soft whimper escaped your lips as he pulled away briefly, his breath hot against your sensitive skin. "Look at me," he commanded, his voice low and rough with desire.

Your eyes met Aemond's, his gaze burning with an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat. Sunlight streamed through the windows, casting shadows across his face, deepening the hollows of his features and lending an almost predatory gleam to his eye.

"Good," he murmured, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "I want you to watch as I undo you."

Without breaking eye contact, he lowered his head once more. The first touch of his tongue against you was electric, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips. Your fingers curled against the table's edge, knuckles white with the effort of maintaining your composure.

Aemond's technique was relentless, each stroke of his tongue precise and measured. He knew your body well, knew exactly how to build your pleasure to dizzying heights.

Your breath hitched as Aemond's tongue swirled against your most sensitive spot. The tension within you coiled tighter, threatening to snap at any moment. Your hips strained against his grip, seeking more, always more.

"Aemond," you gasped, your voice a breathless plea. "Please..."

He hummed against you, the vibration sending a shudder through your entire body. His eye remained fixed on yours, dark with desire and something deeper, something possessive.

You could feel yourself teetering on the edge, every nerve alight with sensation. Aemond's movements became more focused, more insistent. His fingers dug into your thighs, sure to leave marks—a reminder of this moment, of your surrender to him.

The pressure built to an almost unbearable level.

Your body trembled on the edge of release, every muscle taut with anticipation. Aemond's gaze remained locked on yours, intense and unyielding, as he drove you closer and closer to the precipice.

With a final, deliberate stroke of his tongue, the tension within you shattered. A cry tore from your throat as waves of pleasure crashed over you, your back arching off the cold stone table. Aemond's grip on your thighs tightened, holding you steady as he worked you through your climax, drawing out every last shudder and gasp.

Your breath came in ragged gasps as you lay sprawled across the council table, the aftershocks of pleasure still rippling through your body. The rustle of fabric and the soft clink of metal drew your attention back to Aemond. He stood between your parted thighs, his fingers working deftly at the fastenings of his breeches. His eye never left yours, dark with desire and something deeper, more possessive.

"Did you think we were finished?" he murmured, his voice low and rough with want.

A shiver ran through you at his words, anticipation coiling in your belly despite your recent release. You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, watching as he freed himself from the confines of his clothing. The golden light spilling through the windows carved over the planes of his body, accentuating the lean muscle beneath pale skin.

Aemond's hands slid along your thighs, pushing them further apart as he stepped closer. The heat of his body radiated against you, a stark contrast to the cool stone beneath. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your hips as he pulled you to the edge of the table, leaving you exposed and vulnerable before him.

"Tell me you want this," he commanded, his voice low and husky.

You met his gaze, defiance mingling with desire in your eyes. "You know I do."

A ghost of a smirk played at the corners of his mouth. "Say it."

Your breath caught in your throat as you felt him press against you, the promise of what was to come sending a shiver down your spine. "I want you, Aemond," you breathed. "Only you."

With a single, powerful thrust, he buried himself inside you.

A gasp tore from your throat as Aemond filled you completely, the sudden stretch and fullness overwhelming your senses. Your fingers scrabbled for support against the smooth stone of the table, seeking something to ground you as pleasure and pain mingled in equal measure.

Aemond remained still for a moment, his eye fixed on your face, drinking in every flicker of emotion that passed across your features. His hands gripped your hips tightly, holding you in place as your body adjusted to his intrusion.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice low and rough.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his intense gaze. In that moment, with his silver hair gleaming and his eye burning with desire, he looked every inch the dragon prince he was.

Slowly, deliberately, Aemond began to move. Each thrust was measured, controlled, driving deep before withdrawing almost completely. The pace he set was torturous, building the tension within you with agonizing precision. Your breath came in short, sharp gasps, each exhale threatening to form his name.

"Is this what you came for?" Aemond murmured, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down your spine. "To be taken on the council table, like the whore you are?"

A whimper escaped your lips, equal parts humiliation and arousal flooding through you at his words. "Yes," you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper.

His grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging into soft flesh as he increased his pace. The sound of skin against skin echoed in the empty chamber, a rhythmic counterpoint to your gasps and moans.

Aemond's thrusts grew more forceful, driving deeper with each movement. The table beneath you creaked in protest, the sound mingling with your breathless cries. Your fingers curled against the smooth stone, seeking purchase as pleasure built within you once more.

"Look at you," Aemond growled, his eye raking over your flushed skin and parted lips. "Spread out before me like an offering. Tell me, does your husband know how eagerly you come to me?"

His words sent a tremor through you, mortification and desire coiling tight in your belly. "No," you gasped, the word slipping out in a breathless plea.

Aemond's lips curved into a satisfied smirk. "Good. Let him wonder why you return to him with bruises on your hips and my name on your lips."

Aemond’s words sent a heated rush through you, the thrill of his dominance laced with something illicit and intoxicating. His possessiveness only fueled your arousal, each thrust driving you closer to the edge. The cold stone of the table bit into your skin, a stark contrast to the heat building within you.

Aemond's pace increased, his movements becoming more forceful, more desperate. His eye remained fixed on your face, drinking in every gasp and moan that fell from your lips. One hand left your hip, sliding up your body to grasp at your breast through the thin fabric of your gown.

"Mine," he growled, his fingers kneading the soft flesh. "Say it."

"Yours," you gasped, arching into his touch. "I'm yours, Aemond."

A low groan rumbled in his chest at your words.

Aemond's thrusts grew more erratic, his composure finally slipping as he chased his release. Your own pleasure built rapidly, coiling tighter with each powerful movement. The table creaked beneath you, the sound barely registering over the pounding of your heart and your breathless cries.

"Look at me," Aemond commanded, his voice rough with exertion.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his intense gaze. The single eye that remained to him burned with an almost feverish light, desire and possessiveness warring in its depths. His silver hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his lips were parted as he panted with each thrust.

The tension within you reached its breaking point. With a cry that echoed through the empty chamber, you shattered.

Pleasure crashed over you in waves, your body arching off the cold stone as your release overtook you. Aemond's grip on your hips tightened, holding you steady as he continued to drive into you, prolonging your ecstasy with each powerful thrust.

His own climax followed soon after, a low groan tearing from his throat as he buried himself deep inside you. You felt the heat of his release, your inner walls clenching around him as the aftershocks of your own pleasure rippled through you.

For a long moment, the only sound in the chamber was your shared labored breathing. Aemond remained buried within you, his body a warm weight pressing you into the unforgiving surface of the table. His eye never left yours, the intensity of his gaze unwavering even in the aftermath of your shared passion.

Finally, he withdrew, the loss of his warmth leaving you aching for more.

Aemond stepped back, his movements precise as he adjusted his clothing. You remained sprawled across the council table, your chest heaving as you caught your breath. The yellow fabric of your gown was crumpled and askew, a stark reminder of what had just transpired.

"Stand up," Aemond commanded, his voice low and even once more.

You pushed yourself up on shaky arms, sliding off the edge of the table. Your legs trembled beneath you as you smoothed down your skirts, trying to regain some semblance of composure. Aemond watched you with a critical eye, his gaze sweeping over your disheveled appearance.

"You'll need to fix your hair before you leave," he remarked, a hint of satisfaction coloring his tone. "We wouldn't want anyone to suspect."

A wry smile tugged at your lips."Of course not," you murmured, your fingers working to tame your tousled hair. "Though I suspect the marks on my hips may be harder to explain away."

Aemond's lips curved into a smirk, satisfaction gleaming in his eye. "Good. Let them serve as a reminder of where your true loyalties lie."

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek. His touch was gentler now, almost tender, though the possessiveness remained. "You wear yellow like an innocent," he murmured, his thumb brushing along your lower lip. "But we both know the truth of what lies beneath."

You leaned into his touch, your eyes meeting his. "And what truth is that, my prince?"

Aemond's gaze darkened, his grip tightening ever so slightly. "That you belong to me. In all ways that matter.”

A shiver ran through you at his words, desire and something deeper coiling in your belly. "Yes," you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper. "I am yours."

Aemond's thumb traced the curve of your jaw, his touch feather-light yet possessive. "Good," he murmured, satisfaction coloring his tone. "Remember that when you return to your husband's bed."

The reminder of your marital obligations sent a pang of guilt through you, quickly overshadowed by the thrill of your illicit liaison. Aemond's hand dropped from your face, and you immediately felt the loss of his warmth.

"Go," he commanded, stepping back. "Before someone comes looking for you.”

You nodded, taking a moment to smooth your skirts and adjust your hair one final time. As you turned to leave, Aemond's voice stopped you.

"One more thing," Aemond said, his voice low and commanding.

You paused at the door, turning back to face him. Aemond stood tall and imposing, his eye gleaming in the flickering candlelight.

"Next time," he said, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down your spine, "wear green."

A small smile played at the corners of your mouth as understanding dawned. Green, the color of House Hightower - his mother's house. A subtle rebellion against your husband's loyalties, and a clear sign of where your allegiances truly lay.

"As you wish, my prince," you murmured, dipping into a curtsy.

As you slipped out of the chamber and into the afternoon halls of the Red Keep, Aemond’s gaze seared into your back. The weight of your shared secret clung to you like a cloak, a whispered promise and a lingering threat, impossible to shake.